I am doing anything to put off working on my graduate class. I watched "The Bachelorette" yesterday on hulu.com to pass the time in the afternoon and today I decided to follow in Sheridan footsteps and start blogging. Blog plug for Sheridan: follow her and when I figure out how to interject people's blogs in here, I will interject hers. Until then, sorry. It's raining cats and dogs here. And heavy rain reminds me how much I hate driving in insane rain storms. Then that reminds me how stressed out I get driving when the conditions aren't ideal. Then that reminds me how much of a control freak I am. That then reminds me of my Daddy, who is a control freak like I am. It is eye opening when you look at your personality traits and you realize how much you resemble your parents. It is sometimes a relief to pinpoint why you are the way you are. Sometimes, it is a stress. We always want to take pride in being "unique" and "special" and "different". But, let's face it: we are the way we are because of someone else. Sorry, but unless you've lived in a glass house (and man that would be muggy), you are the way you are because of someone else. Nothing you did "special". What makes us "unique" and "special" is how we re-act to those forces in our lives that are beyond our control. Like the monsoon of rain we're driving in or the crappy relationships we allowed ourselves to earn points in purgatory for. Man, do you know how lucky those boys in my past are that I'm not a songwriter? The title of this blog is from one of Miranda Lambert's song off her 'Revolution' album that's playing now. Talk about a girl who you don't want to eff with and should be happy you didn't eff with her heart. You may just have had a song about gunpowder and lead and kerosene written about you. I think the majority of the male population should rejoice in that all woman aren't songwriters. Scary thought, boys. I've kept a journal since high school and whenever I want/need to remind myself of how far I have grown as a woman, I can take one out and read through. Perhaps when I am buried 6 feet under, my kids can publish my journals. I wonder how I am going to feel about them reading my history from 18 years old--???
