Writer's block results in verbal diarrhea.

Hey, remember that time I was starting a blog?  You thought I forgot or tossed it by the wayside along with the rest of my New Year's resolutions?  You are WRONG!  I have attempted no less than 4 times to write a new post.  Every time I get sick of myself, which doesn't bode well for the popularity of my online persona, which is pretty dead on in sync with my in-person persona.  I think it translates better in person.  Or, horror of horrors, it doesn't and the vast majority of people hate me.  Just know, regardless, I don't force anything.  My pontifications are genuine and if they're not shared with cyber land my next drinking buddy victim will be forced to serve as the receptical.  The difference for said victim is most of the time they won't get up and walk away because they don't want to be mean, but they may not be interested in Anna's current installment of AND FURTHER MORE.......  Think of this forum as a favor to those individuals who are brave enough to withstand a loyal friendship with my abrasive self.  By the way, I was informed recently that I'm abrasive.  When I sought a second, third, and fourth opinion, I was met with a sudden change of topic.  That's alright, maybe I'm abrasive, or maybe you're just a pansy.  JUST KIDDING!!!  But honestly, of COURSE I'm abrasive.  I'm a 5'1" female who has often been treated as anything but.  Grown men screaming in my face in the work place.... yes, this has happened more than once, being terrorized by the evil and much larger boys who lived in my neighborhood who would partake in such thrilling activities as kicking me in the crotch, my mother encouraging me as a child to punch people who could easily kill me and make it look like an accident in less than five minutes....... yes, I suppose I'm abrasive.  Have you met my mother?  Better yet, have you met my sister?  I didn't know at the time but apparently a handful of high school friends were afraid of my mom because she yelled all the time.  I thought she was just talking.  Is loud talking considered yelling?  Hence my inability to assess the appropriate volume of my voice.  As for my sister.... the previously mentioned bullies took my bike and taunted me by riding it around in circles and refusing to give it back.  I went home crying and the next thing I knew my sister had left and come back with my bike and refused to tell us what she did to get it back.  No one ever stole my bike again.  In fact, that may have been when the majority of the bullying stopped.  She's now been a child protective services social worker for well over a decade.  My point?  I. am. a. princess.

I spent most of my teen years and early life striving to be as badass as my female role models, so I'm now regarded as having a foul mouth and have proven to be easily capable of making people cry.  I've never punched anyone.... does that count for anything?  Besides the fact that I almost have more than once?  Anyway, apparently I'm abrasive so I won't be going back to the theatre I was working at last summer.  The one where I had a calm, rational conversation with my misogynistic boss with anger management issues and a heart of gold (I'm not joking, I actually think he's a really cool guy) explaining that he didn't need to talk to me like I was a piece of shit under his shoe (no, I didn't really say that).  I told him I liked him and respected him and that I thought he was really good at this job, all of which I meant.  Thus, I am abrasive.  To be fair there were plenty of moments over the summer where I could be easily labeled as such, but last I checked I was working in a theatre.  "Was it something I said?" should be engraved on my tombstone.

I don't have a theme for my blog (which is probably my number one problem), but as my URL would suggest and as mentioned previously, I'm an over-sharer. The best part is most of the time I'm not aware that I'm over-sharing.  i.e. I thought everyone talks openly about these things.  Nope!  Oops.  I was always that kid who would stop being invited over because I knew too much and considered it my duty to spread my discoveries to my fellow youth.  I served as an innocence vacuum (kind of like the Angel of Death, parents would put blood on the door and I was no longer invited over for play dates) which is probably why I ended up predominantly hanging out at the neighborhood drug house (the house no one else was allowed to go near), which was my favorite place to be because there were always new people "stopping by".  Every day we met new ladies often with their own children in tow, with whom we would play, while they took the opportunity to "relieve some tension" and were almost always very nice to us, probably because we kept their kids entertained while they conducted business as usual.  One time we were choreographing a dance to Paula Abdul's "Opposites Attract" while a paraplegic boy watched a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles animated movie on loop while his mother was "unavailable".  He was a sweet kid and I felt bad for him because he couldn't walk and I thought it'd be boring to have to watch the same movie over and over again in a stranger's house.  I hope he liked our dancing.  Besides all these sources of entertainment, I really liked going to their house because I could drink as much Coke as I wanted.  Isn't interesting how kids filter incoming stimuli?

Before condemning my parents' for their lack of concern as to my whereabouts, I will swoop to their defense as the years I spent hanging out at the Prostitution School for Girls taught me that it was okay to like certain aspects of people without necessarily agreeing with their choices, and more importantly that I wasn't better than my friend because I had a big, clean house with two parents.  It also taught me that my parents trusted me and knew I would tell them if anything bad happened.  The dad was a really nice person and my parents really liked him.  Yes, he was a single dad raising two daughters in a house that somehow slipped under the radar of Child Protective Services with a roommate who looking back had NO business being left alone with a gaggle of little girls (again, he was the nicest person and nothing inappropriate ever happened), but it didn't take away from the fact that this dad, for all his faults, loved his girls and did the best he knew how to take care of them, which was obvious due to their docile and loving demeanors.  The heart of a person is not always completely in sync with their perceived environment, i.e. don't misjudge the good in people because they're different or unconventional.  Nothing bad ever happened to me at that house.  This girl was my best friend and it would have really sucked if I hadn't been allowed to play at her house.  Though I still think it's hilarious that while hanging out on the other OTHER side of the tracks was no big deal, I was not allowed to own a Big Wheel (because I wouldn't hear cars coming) or walk to the grocery store by myself.  Ok, fine, I'll just go look at porn magazine's at my friend's house.  The arbitrary nature of set rules in the McKie house was lost on me, but provides me plenty of present-day entertainment upon evaluation.

In conclusion, my gauge for appropriateness is about as accurate as the compass application I downloaded for my phone.  I rarely understand the big deal behind words, turns of phrase, or risque subject matter.  This is why (this is going to appear to be a cheap shot, but I really and truly am using this instance as an example to highlight my point) when my ex husband called me a cunt on our honeymoon, I didn't put as much stake into the word as I suppose I should have.  To me, it was just a word.  I didn't know it was any worse than calling someone a bitch, which isn't nice either, but I didn't know it had infamous societal stigma.  I didn't know it was generally regarded as the worst thing you could call a woman.  To me it was just one more instance of Adam being Adam.  It actually continues to be further down the list in my mind of the worst things he said to me.  Words are just words, but maintain weight and significance through the intended use and context.  Inappropriate subjects, in line with things that happen to many or all of us and "just aren't talked about", fly completely over my head.

When I wrote my diatribe last summer upon receiving Adam's settlement check with "For a divorce" written in the memo line, I knew taking a picture and ranting on Facebook might seem shocking and embarrassing to other people, but for me personally it wasn't an overshare.  It's what happened.  Nothing I said was a lie, and the check was there in my hand.  This was my reality and I didn't understand why I shouldn't be allowed to talk about it.  More so, Facebook is a passive activity.  You don't have to read what I write.  You don't even have to leave the room like you would in person, you simply keep scrolling or hide my feed.  Why should I have to keep my experiences a secret?  Everyone who has timidly inquired about my divorce has received a candid and painfully honest explanation.  I have nothing to hide.  This is what happened, this is where I went wrong and this is where I learned my lesson.  Why is that shameful?  Why is anything I say or do perceived as shameful?  Secrecy is not a life test we should have to pass.  Bottling up our feelings and opinions should not be the end goal.  You're not a hero for keeping quiet.  I kept quiet and it blew up in my face.  Sometimes telling the truth can also blow up in your face, but since we can rarely un- know something I manage to get some semblance of my point across, for whatever it's worth.