Whoa! Shit Just Got Emotional, Y'all.

My best friend recently reminded me that it's been over a month since the last time I've blogged. To which I replied, “A month? No, I think it's only been about three weeks. Okay, maybe three and a half. Jesus, get off my ass.”

Or something like that.

I feel like these “Sorry I suck at blogging” apologies are becoming more frequent, and I wish I had a good excuse. Maybe something like “Sorry guys, can't talk about what's happening on 'My Strange Addiction' this week, because I'm Batman.” Or “I got a full-time job that doesn't require wearing a milk-stained apron.”

Neither of those are the case, though, unfortunately.

I seem to be going through something all bloggers deal with at some point. You start out fiery with schedules and infinite topics. You're commenting on everything and networking like a mother-fucking champ, and then the shine wears off. You get lazy. You start questioning yourself. Comparing yourself.

I sit down at my laptop and think “I'm sure as shit not The Bloggess. Hell, most people have only found my blog while searching for barista porn or asking Google how to sext.”

Proof.

But, I guess, such is life. Even things you love doing, don't always come easy. And you'll probably always question yourself. Wonder if you're good enough. If you're doing enough. If you're on the right path.

For anyone that doesn't know, I started blogging after realizing I didn't want to be a journalist. I was about a month away from graduation, which is the best time to figure out you don't want to do the thing you've spent the last four years preparing yourself to do. I was interning in public radio. Writing unbiased copy to be read on-air, and I was good at it. I had a very promising career in journalism, I was told. The same thing I had been told by the local newspaper I worked for, a few months prior.

But that didn't make my days go by any faster. I just wanted to write. I didn't want to dig up a story. I wanted to create a story. But I didn't think becoming a writer was feasible, so I decided to major in journalism. To me, it was the responsible choice.

Then I took a creative writing class, my last semester. I had avoided any form of non-journalistic writing, my entire college career. If I didn't take part in it, then I wouldn't want it. This is basically the same rationalization used by the Marcus Bachmanns of the World. I love my wife. I love my wife. I love my wife. Fuck! Ryan Gosling.

After the first class, I knew I had made a huge mistake. I should have been writing. I wanted to entertain people. I wanted to tell stories. I wanted to make people laugh. I skipped the rest of the day and cried in my car.

I know this seems overdramatic, and in a lot of ways, it is. But being someone who is obsessed with making the right decision, with having control, with having a clear path, realizing I was thoroughly unhappy with the choices I had made, left me feeling helpless. So I ignored it. Until I couldn't ignore it, roughly 30 days before I walked across a stage and accepted my makeshift diploma.

That's how this happened. My blog. I just thought I would write about work. And then a few people started reading. Then I learned how to network a bit, and a few more people started reading. I remember hitting 10 followers and losing my shit. Ten! Fucking 10 people chose to read some nonsense I've written.

It was the happiest I had been in a long time.

Then my expectations rose. The comparisons. The criticism. All the things that make doing something you love difficult.

I buckled.

I convinced myself that being a writer was not going to happen. That I wasn't tough enough. That I wasn't good enough.

I got in my own way.

Normally, I'm not a fan of overly personal posts. I figure no one actually gives a damn that I'm completely confused and have no clue what my next step is. But maybe you do. Maybe you feel the same way.

But whatever your opinion, this is here. A reminder to myself that while fallible, I can make the conscious decision to do what I love. To accept the confusion and the fear, because they are just as critical of characters in this journey as confidence and happiness. I will continually live with them all. And that's okay.

I just have to remember, that writing is what makes me happy. And even if that means the only person I'm writing for is myself, it's enough.

I'm enough.

We're enough.

I'll be back talking about weird shit in a couple days. Until then, my friends.

Happy Father's Day! Thanks for Not Shooting Me in the Face.

My dad is an interesting man.

Not interesting like he runs marathons and speaks Latin.

Interesting like he goes in and out of a Cajun accent without ever having spent any real time in Louisiana. He is obsessed with Nazi history, much to the dismay of my half-Jewish mother. He refers to himself solely as Padre de Gato and almost shot me in the face when I was a kid.

Yeah, you read that right.

I was six years old, and my dad almost offed me.

He was teaching my brother and I about gun safety. Being a southern-raised good ol' boy, my dad having an arsenal of weapons was as common as other dads having golf clubs.

"Never touch my guns," he said. "Now this one isn't loaded, but..."

Pop!

A single bullet whizzed by my head and shattered the dining room window.

I screamed.

He screamed.

My mom drew up divorce papers.

It was a pretty traumatic day.

Surprisingly enough, my dad was not kicked out of the house after his safety lesson gone awry, but he did spend the rest of the afternoon boarding up the window and trying to figure out how to spin this story to DCFS.

"I was teaching them an important lesson--accidents happen," he'd preach, swearing that it was intentional. "My kids now know to be afraid of guns!"

Parenting 101. Good looking out, Pops.

However, it didn't really teach me to be afraid of guns, but it did make me very suspicious of him.

So Dad, just know, I'm still watching you, you son-of-a-bitch.

 But happy Father's Day, nonetheless.