Self Doubting Bitch

Please just go ahead and scroll past this post right now.  Because I plan to whine, and not even eloquently.  So I want to be able to break dance.  I want to not be addicted to Google Reader.  I want to not miss being a smoker.  I want blond cork-screw curls.  I want to be comfortable sharing with the pick a little talk a little women, that I am surrounding myself with all of a fucking sudden, that I don't care if they think I'm a good parent, neighbor, wife, reader, movie-goer or person.  Oh, and I'd like to mean it.  I want  to have had a great childhood and some vague example of what I'd like to be to my boys.  I want to have known a smidge about myself before my 25th birthday.   I want to not be in constant competition with my mother.  I want a hard body.  I want to save my kids from the intensive life that I fear Northern Virginia could have planned for them.  I want to say over-crowded; caged; never see the light of day; nailed to the spot; like a Norwegian Blue only not quite dead instead of intensive.  Wow, am I really that much of a smug morally superior bully?  Bully, yes.  Smug and morally superior, I am today.  I'm lovely, I should be medicated.  Well, medicated better.