Monstrous Liar

I am literally melting as we speak. It is 8:31 pm and I am fanning myself with my hand it's so wretchedly hot here. I have been sweating since I woke up (10:45). I haven't changed out of my pajamas because honestly, what's the point? I'm just going to make anything I change into gross too. I HAVE brushed my hair, my teeth, and washed my face. Go me. I also made Navajo tacos for my family for lunch today, did some dishes, vacuuming and mopping and that's about it.

I know I am going to have a hard time leaving this place but I am glad that this life is not my fate. I haven't worked out in probably a month, my clothes are starting to dig into my waistline, I spent all day eating candy. Not chocolate; candy. I never waste my time with candy normally. And the worst part is, I don't even care. I am not depressed; I am melting. I was not made for the French life of having 5 weeks of summer. My new motto is "vacation kills motivation". I can't wait to get back to my JOB, my kids, my room in the basement that is so cool it doesn't even need air conditioning in the summertime. Friends, I like you too. Family, don't whine, you too.

I could have just said that I was grateful for a job, air conditioning, and my normally healthy lifestyle. But they would have been empty words without my whining coming first.

Anyway, lately all I feel like writing on this blog are things that would strictly infringe upon my "discretion policy". Which leads me to a pretty good question: what is the point of having a blog and knowing interesting people if most of those interesting people read your blog and wouldn't appreciate my insightful observations of them in all their glory?

I don't know what this says about me, but it seems like a lot of said observations are often incriminating. Especially when they concern me, and they often do. So I keep my mouth shut. Does this mean I am living a lie? Or that I am one of those monsters of a person who only derives meaning from life by mocking others?

I'm reading that silly girlie book still. Actually, I'm on the second in the series. I laugh out loud every time I read it. It's basically a fictional character's journal. And it's hilarious. Everyone I make read it hear agrees with me that it's funny. Even the guys. I'm seriously considering contacting (like I know how) the publishing powers that be to see if I could do the English translation. I'm sure I would do a good job, reading that book is like reading my life. And then my French would actually be useful. When I told people that I was a French major they wouldn't do that nod where they mutter something like "nice" all while checking out my shoes. No, I could say "yeah I'm a French major and I translated that hugely successful girlie book you've heard all about". Because it would be hugely successful. Trust me. Though that would be an ironic entry into the world of publication; not publishing my own work but translating someone else's. It's so ironic it just might happen: irony is one of my life's operating principles.

All this to say that I love this book that is like a girl's journal, or blog. And it's gotten me thinking. Conclusion, if I weren't me, I would find my life hilarious. And if I were to write a book about my life, people would read it, dangit. But no self respecting person can sell themselves out like that. I think we only laugh at fiction like that because we relate so much to it. Laughing is like a confession, it's liberating. But if what you were to read WEREN'T fiction, well reality might make you blush instead. I know I would. And you know what, I bet everyone feels the same way; that their life is publishable material but that they couldn't look themselves in the mirror knowing that everyone knew their deep dark oddities. It's like they say, about truth being stranger than fiction. Too much truth is too much strangeness, we can't handle it.


You know what I think I'm going to do? I'm going to start a whole new blog, entitled Monstrous Liar. I will be the only one able to access and read it and at last I will be able to write whatever the heck I feel like. No editing. No lies. I won't tell anyone the address but I will leave it in my will, by way of clues in the form of lyrics. It's really a shame. I live a funny life surrounded by amusing and interesting people that don't always know they are amusing or interesting. Plus I inherited the art of exaggeration from my father so even if they aren't amusing or interesting, I can usually make them sound that way. I can do wonders with people who are annoying. The world at large could benefit from my humoristic if not tactless and sarcastic observations.

But until I die and the person who I deem worthy of my blog password finds and makes public my blog, the world will have to wait for my translation of this book, which is basically the equivalent to Monstrous Liar aka My Life.


If you have to know, Prague was wonderful. Remember that bit about lacking motivation? Yeah, well details and pictures are coming. Later.