It’s my blog and I’ll quote Popeye if I want to

28 Jul

Lately there’s been all this talk about what is and what is not a mommy blogger. About why we blog, why we do what we do, and why we feel it’s necessary to be put in a box (or bust open the seams of said box). I got an email today about yesterday’s post. Basically tsk tsking me for talking about vibrators on a mommy blog. This, combined with Aunt Becky’s (in case you didn’t know, Aunt Becky is the shit. I totally stalk her and you should too. She rocks beyond compare) question, “Why do you blog?” really got me thinking. Who am I really? Where do I fit? Why do I really blog? Am I doing the wrong thing? Am I too “out there”?

I have kids, sometimes I talk about them. That doesn’t make me a mommy blogger, at least not what people seem to think mommy bloggers are. If there was some rule that “mommy bloggers” weren’t allowed to talk about things like porn or vibrators, no one told me. See the title up there at the top of the page? That’s my name. My real name, well the Merritt part, not the ocracy part, that would be a hella weird name. So…my name, my rules. If what I write offends you, don’t read it. Because honestly, I don’t write for you. And maybe that’s not cool for me to say, but it’s true. Yes, I love that people read what I write. I love when people leave comments, because it gives me validation that I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. But at the end of the day, I write for me.

I have notebooks full of random shit that just pops into my head. I need an outlet for my crazy, and this is it. They used to have me on Prozac, but this is really much cheaper. You can only tell your friends and family about your random rambling thoughts so many times before people really start to think you’re nuts. On my blog, I can be nuts, I can be crazy, because hey, crazy is the new black, right? (See how I just slipped that in there? I should totally be in advertising.) I write because I love to write. I love to have this crazy idea in my head, all jumbled and senseless, and just let it out into a (vaguely) coherent story. I love the process. I love everything about it. I’ve written for myself for way longer than blogs were popular, and really before the internet was even a “thing”, I’m that old, y’all. It’s always been my outlet, the only difference between now and then is, now, I have an audience other than my mother (my mom still reads my blog, even though she thinks I’m vulgar).

I’m doing all I can to not apologize for even possibly offending someone, but I’m not going to do it. As a wise sailor once said, “Aye yam who aye yam, and that’s all that aye yam.”

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