Jen: An Epilogue

(Happy trails to you 'till we meet again... )

The time has drawn nigh to send this blog to pasture. While I could say that I was forced into early retirement, I don't really believe that to be true. Honestly, I am looking forward to starting over in a voice that more closely echoes my own.

My first post was in August of 2005 and I have only sporadically blogged since then. I started a couple of weeks after the birth of my daughter. I had a few friends who had blogs and I thought it might be an interesting outlet for introspection and self-obsessed rants.

Since the beginning, this place been a point of contention in a pathetically puerile way. Temper tantrums are so boring and I have a two-year old which from I receive the recommended daily allowance thankyouverymuch.

Here is an elephants' graveyard of poorly edited thoughts and feelings. It lacks cohesion as well as content. While there are a few musings that I am proud to have penned, I will not mourn the lot as a whole. I am done watching this blog falter as it lugs around a big, black trash bag full of half-truths.

My friend must be a Bird is now officially known as The Most Boring Museum in the Midwest. Admission is free on Wednesdays.

In closing I would like to thank the few of you who would stop in regularly to see what I had to say. It feels good knowing that sometimes I was heard. I won't be far and if you want to find me, I'll be the one holding a rubber chicken.

With Love and Squalor,

Jen

Lament?

(Disclaimer: I got a little tipsy last night & found a keyboard. Sorry y 'all.)

Sometimes joy carries a sting. It is simple to chalk up past experiences to the bastard Fate and rationalize years of complicity as just that, convenience and lack of discomfort. I spent years in a self-induced state of calculated comfort. I lost so much damn time because I was too afraid to express a semblance of human emotion. Ah...the harsh lessons we learn. I did not realize how closed off and patently inaccessible I was four years ago. Wasted time and wasted space and here I sit lamenting about missed embraces and I want to break large pieces of pottery - dash them against a wiling surface and scream until my vocal chords rupture. Does this sound melodramatic and weak? I don't give a sterile fuck. This is where I sit right now. Broken and bruised over lost years and hubris. Goddamn if I can't get over it tonight. While everything comes up roses and sunshine, I still feel shitty about what has been lost.