You all might have noticed that I have a tendency towards melancholy sometimes. It’s true, I do.

And I’ve been chaffing lately. I’m cranky. I’m feeling pigeonholed and ignored at the same time “oh here little blogger girl, you’re so good at writing about poverty- thank gawd it’s a topic we almost universally ignore”.

I didn’t start out being a poverty blogger. I started out, like a lot of women, being the big idea political blogger. That’s my major after all. I can get down with the inside out Washington wonkery with the best of the Big Boy Blogs. But I’m a girl, and no one listens when girls write about that shit unless they are former rethuglicans turned fauxgressives (Arriana Huffington-cough). I can give you the run down, off the top of my head, the average percent of gdp spent on healthcare in prolly 15 countries. I can also break down for you exactly how those countries provide universal care, either through cost controls or non-profit private insurance or a mix of a things. But I’m a poor single mom who couldn’t afford to finish a degree, my knowledge carries exactly no weight in the political sphere.

I wrote a long ass time ago about the Pink Zennana, the women’s only ghetto of politics that we are pushed into (or join gratefully, happy to finally have an audience where our words aren’t drowned out by bellowing boys). Hurray, feedback! But only if we stick to a very short list of topics with a decidedly pink theme.

So great, I’m good at writing about the poor. Because I am actually poor, I will never get a paid position writing about the poor. We don’t allow that in this country. Period. And because I am actually, full throated-ly progressive (and female), I will never get a paid job writing about big politics. We don’t allow that in this country.

So after many many years of blogging, I’m a bit frustrated.

And there are so many other things I like to write about. I love art. I would be an art critic in another life. But why not this one? And music. And movies. Fuck it, if my serious shit is going to be ignored for the most part (not by you, my darling few readers) then I might as well throw in more of the writing that makes me happy.

So that’s it. You all will be seeing more (and have been seeing more) of the fluffy posts. It’s better for my mental health. Not that I’m giving up politics, but writing should either make me happy or make me money or both. It should not make me more pissed off at the world.

And now for a thank you. Yesterday I got a zillion happy birthday, I love you messages from my darling friends and family. It’s hard being physically away from my friends, and I’ll tell you a little secret. Growing up in the house that I did, I am always shocked that people remember who I am, let alone that they like me or love me. It’s a deeply seeded childhood insecurity that comes from never being able to trust that your parents love you. I think it must be an abused kid thing.

Anyways, I got all these awesome messages and I think my heart exploded. It feels a bit like becoming a solid thing, something that takes up space in the universe, that has a place and a mass, instead of being just a bit of whispy ether with no tether to the world. Thank you all for that. Big smooches and serious love for that.