My name may as well be Oxyano, or malymoron, or neither of those. Those are bad names.
I love to write, but have a hard time finding words. They hide from me. In meanly difficult places to find. The pages stay blank.
I wish to never grow up and be responsible, yet I keep willingly increasing my speed toward grown up things like a career, and paying loans, and having babies (not an announcement), and buying that perfect house that will accommodate all of my interior design plans that I've found on pinterest.
I currently work at a job where I sit, and sit and sitsitsitsit. There is very little physical or mental exertion required of me, yet when I get home at the end of the day I am just too tired to cook or exercise, or journal, or blog, or do that list of things that has been undone for a month. Doing nothing all day is H-A-R-D.
When my hair is long I want it short, when my hair is short I want it long. At least I am a normal woman in that regard.
I secretly long to be recognized for my vocal skills, but refuse almost every offer or opportunity to showcase myself. They might not think I am as good as I think I am. Maybe that agent looking for the next best artist will desperately need to use the bathroom while driving through Corinne, Ut, happen upon my parents house because they always go off the main road looking for bathrooms in residential areas, come at 6:30 in the morning when I have my daily concert for the shower head and hundreds of empty shampoo bottles (who doesn't have to pee in the morning right?), place their ear to the door and find me. I'm crossing my fingers.
I will enlighten you of the other traits my dear mum, maly and dad, moron have given me as I trip over them as I walk over that completely flat surface.