Schitt
First-world problems coming in hot, but my recycling issues are a mess. Our recycling company only comes every other week. I shared this with a friend in New York and she kind of freaked out. She asked how I manage. She said she had never heard of such an infrequent schedule. Her recycling comes twice…
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It sucks. I don’t need to write anymore, but I’m gonna. Please re-read that last sentence with all the sass God, Heather, and your own personal verbosity allow. Reasons writing sucks: The English language is ridiculous. Therefore, trying to communicate a message in the confines of its impossible structure creates difficulties. People don’t like to…
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I am so sick of all the spammers of the world; I could be physically ill. A few years ago, I swore off Gmail because I was being spammed so aggressively, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Eventually, I ended up slinking back, but that’s another story. Then my husband and I switched cell phone…
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About Heather
(So, my web designer says I needed to include a bio, though I find this task silly because, if you’re here, you know me.)
I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s a cathartic mechanism when I need release from my anxiety. I’ve had blogs in the past; I’ve taken them down, but I never stopped writing. I simply can’t. My notes app is forever long as it’s filled with pages and pages of different topics. Sometimes I just write a few sentences. Sometimes I write paragraphs.
Recently, I've been writing long essays. My friends and others I hold dear have coaxed me into sharing my work again.
So that's what I'm doing, you wicked, pushy people. LOL
I have no desire to see my writing be anything more than an opportunity to share what I love doing most. I have no interest in this blog reaching the masses.
I thought it would be fun to call it My Spicy Disaster because that's often how I feel. A complete mess of epic proportion. So join me, if you'd like, and let's pretend we're not sitting amongst the chaos crying, but laughing instead.
Or maybe we do cry sometimes, but then wipe our tears and remember one person’s disaster is another person’s … well, who the hell knows …