I hate the internet. Which is unfortunate.

It is my job to be on the internet.  Without the internet, my job ceases to exist. And I become unemployed which is scary and terrible and I hate it.

But I loathe the damn thing. What is the internet? It’s a vacuous suckup that pains me.  It furrows my brow. It has no sunshine, and I stare at it, lose focus, and want to shove it deep under the couch and walk very far away from it. Like to the top of a mountain.

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I want to run from my computer.  I want a thought extractor– a translator that gets the words in my head out and into the internet without me so much as having to crack a screen or clicking anything. A pen like thought magnetizer. Though, I suppose that it could also be considered a notebook.

I used to write in notebooks all the time. There are volumes on the floor in a blue box by my dresser at the moment. Scratchings that peeled from my head without the worries of backspace & delete interrupting the rush.  Now I find it hard to write without first thinking of ripping out this badboy Acer and tapping out the alphabet on it.  Clicketyclack wordzapt.

Regardless of internet hatred, here I am to write on it.  I think the internet made the act of writing just for the sake of writing, pointless, really. What’s the point of writing in a notebook, when I could be blogging and  “out there” on the internet. For all the world to see.  It sickens me really.  My notebooks were much more fruitful.

Of course, who am I kidding? The internet is not the only culprit I can blame in my decline of writing for pleasure.  The children definitely leave a tasty grand craving for creative space in my mouth.  With the name “Mama” being the chorus of my mornings, afternoons, & evenings I seldom have a splotch for such a trivial thing as self come time to be alone at night.

Speaking of those children. Boy did they get on my nerves today. “Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama!”

Somedays, like today, when they won’t let me get a thought to myself in edgewise,  all I’m thinking in my head is, “Daddy, Daddy, where the fuck is your Daddy?” Then I fold a piece of laundry or wash a damn dish, getting more and more agitated as the requests keep rolling in.

Mama, I want juice. Mama, I want a fruit snack.  Mama, come look at this.  Mama, I want some candy.  Mama, can I have ice cream? Mama, can Lucia come over? Mama, can I play computer games? Mama, can you open this? Mama, come here.  Mama, can you button this? Mama, can we go to twisty yogurt bar? Mama, can we go to the park? Mama, can I eat in the living room? Mama, Fern hit me. Mama, Ollie touched my dress.  Mama, Fern bit me. Mama, Ollie (loud cries/whines). Mama, can I have sooooda?

A silenced “SSSSSHHHHHUTUPSHUTUPSSHHHUTUP” slips through my brain, and some bizarre noise escapes my mouth. Man. I hate being a growler.

But today, well, this afternoon, really, that’s what I was.  A growler.  Growling. At the children. With their constant blathering of babble. I’m over it, of course, now.  I snuggled them and tucked them in bed, the Sandman has visited, they are dreaming.It is evening once again & no one is requesting of me anything. Now it’s lovely time.

I’ve got the bedside lamp on, the quilt over my legs, my head nustled in my pillows, the dreaded internet open and upon my lap to tap. The door to the porch is open & I can hear a boy strumming on a guitar.  The crickets are chirping. And I’m feeling quite satisfied.  And I’m feeling like I must get off this damn internet.