Oh, I suppose I could write about how I bought my mom a pink camo case for her new pistol and how excited she was when she unwrapped it Christmas day, or about how I've rediscovered my love for lamb and the amazing (and easy!) crockpot recipe I used, or about my awkward misadventures with Bollywood dance, or perhaps about the brand new crazy lady at the library, or maybe I could write about that blank canvas on my easel taunting me and how I've been craving color like a drug, or about how when I'm feeling sad or anxious I calm myself by imagining the view through a rifle scope and the mindfulness of breath that it requires.
But I won't.
Tender and thin skinned, tears brimming at random nonsensical moments, I find myself unable to bear the argumentative comments that somehow appear even on my most uncontroversial of posts. The sheer tediousness of undeserved snark and the weight of scrutiny have crushed my desire to write.
This, combined with 2010: Breda's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year has made blogging a struggle, even on my best days.
Please stand by.