Before my Hubs, before kids, before my life became so domestic...

I was a writer.

I was an artist.

I was a drunk.

Ok, so I wasn't really a drunk, per se, but I did get fuct up alot.

I would come home hammered and grab my notebook. In it I would write the most incredible, albeit angry and drunken, prose and some really good poetry.

I would write about life, love, lust, and fucking. I would write about god or lack thereof. I would write about hate, and anger, and dark thoughts that no one dared talk about out loud.

I would wake the next morning and look back in my notebook amazed at my complete outpouring of thought and emotion. Only a drug or alcohol induced haze could possibly produce such intensity.

But it was good. It was really good.

I don't let anyone read my notebook. Not even my Hubs.

My notebook was therapy for me. My way to get all of the negative energy out. But, in order to get it all out, I have to be fuct up. It unlocks my mind, you see. I could sit in the dark, by candlelight, with a pen, my notebook, a joint, and write all night long. I could. But I don't. I can't. Not anymore.

My life is different now.

I no longer get fuct up. I no longer smoke pot. I no longer let myself get more than buzzed even.

I no longer write in my notebook.

I try. But the words just. won't. come.

If there is one thing about my pre-family life that I miss, it's that.

My creativity.

My poetry.

My words.