My Therapy

After spending close to 50 grand on a business degree to be a stay-at-home mom, I’ve decided to allow myself to break one item out of rage every time my student loan payment comes due. Nothing big, but just some nonsensical item that could be thrown out anyway and is of no use to anyone. This last month, it happened to be a watergun that I found in the basement that had grown mildew and should have been rinsed out, but was neglected and was now probably hazardous to the health of the household anyway. Being as though we have the flu, it seemed appropriate. I didn’t have the strength to break it, so I just slammed it on the counter and tossed it in the trash. I can’t explain how this type of therapy works but it does. Strange. I know.

That being said, I am working hard on the sequel to The Unbalancing Act which is also very strangely therapeutic. I don’t know why. I am not an English major. I never took writing classes. I don’t use proper form or even know the literary jargon.

A “good writer” may describe how they feel about a cold winter’s day somewhat like so:

“The chill of winter had set in and I could feel the frost igniting my bones. With the fall of dusk contributing to the brisk night air, I embraced mother nature’s gift of seasonal change with a twinge of bitterness toward the bleak arctic winds.”

My style is much more like this:

“I have snot running down my nose and my nipples are so hard that if anyone were to bump in to me, they would get sliced and need stitches in two places. I can’t feel my balls, so it’s a good thing I don’t have any. Winter can suck it!”

I am not a “writer” per say, but I am a person who writes. I think there is a difference. However, I must say…it is  therapeutic and it works for me. It certainly saves me money on a psychiatrist. Maybe soon, I can even quit breaking things once a month when Sallie Mae comes knocking. I sure hope so, because I’d like to punch that bitch in her stupid face.