Excuse Me While I Fire Off

This blog is not suppose to be for my tirades, but it is an opportunity to vent. Feel free to skip this blog and proceed to Dreamy Wednesdays. Much more interesting and fulfilling than listening to me bitch about my insides.

I guess I am not one for heated discussion. I start to panic as the lump rises in my throat, and I, as a thirty-year-old woman, fear I am going to cry from frustration. I know what I want to say. I know what I think, but I can't articulate it. Everthing that comes out of my mouth tastes like foot. I stumble, I babble, I say "but but but", I interrupt, I feel like I can't get a word in edgewise.

It is not a craft I have ever perfected, and I am more prone to escaping it than practicing. No, I didn't debate in high school or college.

The next day, I feel like a dolt. I can't help but recycle conversations over and over in my head. I can taste foot in my mouth from the memory of the conversation. I fear I have left a terrible impression. I fear my thoughts and opinions are unsubstantiated, and I start to look up topics on the internet to validate myself. I worry worry worry worry worry until I am in a sufficiently bad mood. This is when I get my cleaning done.

So, I guess there was a reward from a heated discussion where I didn't make my point with grace, where I fumbled with my thoughts and lost every arguement, where I feel I may have formed an opinion, left a wrong picture, and judged someone I don't know very well to harshly.

My apartment is really clean, and I think I may go for an anger driven walk. Clean aparment and exercise...