I have this nightmare lately that my kids (no that doesn't mean anything you over-analyzing silly people, I mean my way way way in a lot of years in the future kid(s?)) won't know anything about me. I mean the real me. The me that would spray-an-entire-bottle-of-whipped-cream-in-my-mouth-when-nobody's-looking me! The me that wants to cry when she throws a pair of shoes away because of all the sentimental memories they have. I want to leave a little bit about me behind when they "put me in a big black box and cover me up with dirt and rocks".
The solution... blog. Hello, Mitzi! Jump back on the blog wagon!
I hearby do solemly swear to document my life more, my current life and past memories.
I swear maybe someone will read this little blog of mine and I wont be completely forgotten one day when the "ants crawl in, the ants crawl out, the ants play pinnacle on my...snout?" (crap, is that really how the song goes? Gross.
Sincerely,
trying to not be obsessed with death (but it sure sounds like I am) but just wanting to finally get back in the swing of things.
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