Don't read this if you don't like reading complaints, though there is a good bit about a dream I had this morning at the end. There were sharks.

It's surprisingly difficult to keep up a blog these days.  Being out of college means I don't have excessive free time or fun parties/events to recount.  Living inside the states means I don't have foreign adventures to talk about.  And I don't like reading those really artsy craftsy blogs written by women who like pastel colors, zucchinis, and being stay at home moms (which is all fine to do - I just don't want to read about it).

I guess I'm not a very good blogger.  Most of the people I encounter in the blogosphere annoy me - there's too much crossover with the ethereal people over on Pinterest (which, if you didn't know, is a site for those who like to make scrapbooks full of things other people have done or made or written).

I ran across a blog the other day that was all neatly distressed with a background that looked like paper, and photos that look like polaroids, and content all about this woman living a simple, rustic, folk life.  The silverware in her photos was old and worn, the linens simple cotton.  It was nice, until you realized that she did nothing all day except pretend she was rustic, surrounded by the dishes bought from Crate & Barrel that only look vintage, and curtains from Anthropologie, and tables from Pottery Barn that only look like they've been salvaged from farmhouses.

I guess it's okay to like a style simply because the aesthetics please you.  But that blog just irks me.  It's like bridal magazines and chick flicks, which are designed solely to inspire envy and a disappointment with real life, and what's worse is that so many women buy into it so completely.  You're not really all chic and bohemian.  You bought your winsome vintage lifestyle, and you're blogging about it because you like when all those other bloggers leave comments telling you how pretty it is and how much they wish they had the time / creativity to do what you do.

It occurs to me that I'm the perfect stereotype of the proletariat.  Hard working, prideful, maybe just a little bitter.

I can't really blame bloggers who have the means and motivation to live the artsy-blog-lifestyle.  If I had gobs of free time and a husband who spent 60 hours a week at some high-powered job, I'd probably take adorable pictures with a lomography camera and sit around talking about organic honey roasted figs and hessian tablecloths and plant a garden I'd pay someone else to weed.

Whoops.  That got bitter again.

In other news.

I'm getting restless with my job.  It's a good job, and I like my bosses.  I have a great project manager who shows a lot of confidence in my writing skills and ability to get things done (and is hilariously stuck in the 1990s - he says things like "Hey, girl!" and "rad" because he thinks that's how people still talk).

Nonetheless, I'm feeling the need for a change.  The projects are getting to me - I spent 12 hours this week writing about insulation.  Like, fiberglass insulation.  And now I'm writing about search engine optimization (which, while vital to the success of a website, is also painfully dull).  After that, I get to write about a surgical practice, and then I get to write content for an electronics manufacturing company's site.  Super fun times.  I know I'm being petty.  I could take boring projects and deal with restlessness if I was getting benefits, or at least just health care coverage.  But, alas, the budget for a full time, fully employed copywriter is still a few years away.

I just need someone to pay me to write a few stories, take a few photos, cook some meals, draw a few pictures, bake some cakes, sew a few dresses, and read articles about sciencey stuff.  And build a treehouse (since I really want to build a treehouse).  And get an MFA and a PhD.

Or, I just want to be a member of that weird Canadian cadre of webcomic writers which includes Ryan North, Joey Comeau, Kate Beaton, John Campbell (I actually don't know if he's Canadian), and David Malki !.  They actually get together and party.

I'm too eclectic.  I'm interested in too many things to get really good at just one of them.

I really should just start writing trashy romance novels. They're easy to write and pretty lucrative, I've been told.

In other, recent news, I had a very bizarre dream this morning that involved a large swimming pool, a canoe that was made of knit yarn (and was not at all effective at boat things like keeping the water out or floating), and sharks.  Lots of sharks in the swimming pool.  So as my canoe inevitably began sinking, I struggled out of the pool and started edging around the narrow ledge between the water and the walls of the building, trying to get to the door.  Sharks kept sticking their heads out of the water and opening their mouths at me until I banged the oar I was still carrying against the wall.  I think I've read somewhere that sharks don't like loud noises.

For some reason, there was also a jukebox next to the pool set back in a nook in the wall, and I was tempted to see for myself whether or not sharks really like AC/DC.  But, before I could do so, something bit my foot.  I looked down and saw a little plant that looked like an artichoke crossed with a sandworm (a la Dune).  It had teeth that were actually cactus spikes, and it bit me.  It sort of thrashed around trying to keep biting me, so I kicked it into the water, but it just flopped back out and started chasing me.

The moral of the story is that plants are apparently scarier than sharks to my subconscious.