“What a weird title for a blog written at five thirty in the morning” you may be thinking to yourself, ‘how much could have possibly gone on in someone’s day at this hour?’
Well, let me just tell you- although most of the people I know are still in bed right now, and a few of you are just getting up, I get up at four, every morning, ON PURPOSE. I know, I know, that is like the middle of the freaking night, and it’s a little weird- especially now that it doesn’t even get light out until about seven, pretty much. But I do it because it is the only time of the day that I can legitimately claim for myself.
I used to (like, until right now) say that I get up this early to write, which I do, but as you can see, it is now almost six (and no, it did not take me almost a half an hour to come up with those first two brilliant paragraphs, I was rounding down. It was really like five forty seven, Mr. Literal) and I have gotten very little writing done. Sometimes, I get up at four and get no writing done at all, ever. But I do get several hours owned by me, to do with as I wish. I am not on the work clock or the mommy clock, I am on the Courtney clock, and sometimes, these tiny hours way before dawn are the only thing that keep me hanging on to sanity. I would also hazard a guess that they are also the main reason I can’t stay awake past seven in the evenings, but I try not to think about that. Nothing good happens past seven anyway. Right?
Anyway, I get up, I make coffee, I grab my phone and my latest book, and I get started on my me time. The first thing I do is check Facebook, and I get all excited because I have like twenty notifications, then I get all disappointed, because eleven of them are comments to a conversation I didn’t care about to begin with and only commented on myself to be polite, six of them are other people liking something I wrote to be polite, four of them are game requests from people who should really be sleeping, and there is always one weird one from a guy I am not sure I actually know, and I can’t tell what he is talking about, but I think he is hitting on me. Or possibly a serial killer, so I can’t delete him, because I want him to feel like we are on the same page, so I am not his next target. That seems like it is probably more than twenty, but I am not going to check. This is an example, anyway, not a word for word alibi or anything. Calm down.
Then, I check my WordPress stats ( Apparently I spelled “wordpress” wrong. Twice.) Actually, in case you haven’t caught on to this yet, I don’t even have one single relevant or interesting thing to say today. The sole reason I am writing this at all is because I am such a Word Press (I guess it is two words? You would think that since I am literally writing IN WordPress (aha!) right now, I would be able to see it written on this page somewhere, but it isn’t) junkie, I am terrified to skip a day, now. Yesterday, I broke the record number of views from the day before, and so now I feel compelled to keep going, knowing there is a real danger that I am boring you to death because I am not really saying ANYTHING. So, I check my stats.
Then, hopefully, at that point, I have something funny or interesting (at least to me) to write, and I just can’t keep from writing it. That is not the case today. All that happened so far today is that I went to the store in my pajamas (although I did put a bra on first) because we needed cat food and tampons, because the only tampons in the house were like super-ultra-extra-amazing-power tampons that I clearly grabbed by mistake. I don’t even want to contemplate who would need a tampon that large. You shouldn’t have to brace yourself when it comes to feminine hygiene. Actually, now that I think about it, almost every part of feminine hygiene requires that you brace yourself, doesn’t it? But it shouldn’t, not when we are talking about tampons. Also, we needed bread. So, my me time was punctuated with some household chores, but if you have ever tried to write a blog with starving cats meowing accusingly at you while trying to figure out how to comfortably sit with an industrial sized tampon on board…you are stronger than I am.
Well, that was fifteen minutes of your life you are never getting back. Plus, my mom is going to be disgusted with me for writing about tampons. Sorry, mom. Someone needed to broach the subject.
I promise to be less offensive tomorrow.