When I was employed as a writer and my husband was still a touring musician, I felt the freedom to be weird. I wore weird clothes, I listened to weird music, and I decorated my house with my weird style.
Sure, I received some flack from the “normals”, but I was surrounded by more weirdos than normals.
Biceps and I were often hired by others to build out of the ordinary things, due to the fact that our artistic license accompanied our meticulous building skillz. Case in point, an artist hired us to build her this pretty, but functional shed that we deemed the “Big Girl Playhouse“.
I’ve been proud of the unorthodox things that I have built. I realize that not everyone is a weirdo like me and won’t like my style. That’s cool. I can handle it.
But, as a blogger, I am critiqued for my artistic license way more than the average bear. I try to take it all in stride. Heck, I understand why someone on the west coast doesn’t appreciate my deer hoof coat rack. They’re worried about their patchouli and plugs. I track with why Mr. Modern Guy may not like my barn wood dining room table. I understand it’s all chrome and glass for you. And sure, purple master bedrooms may not be your thing. I know you have a hankering for realtor beige. It’s cool.
I’m not normal, so my stuff isn’t normal. I get it. I friggin’ get it.
When I build something that’s for me, and I take the time to photograph each step, edit those photographs, write out an informative tutorial on exactly how to do it, how much it costs, where to buy the material…why is it ok for the internet kingdom to rip me a new one and tell me how ugly/stupid/dumb my project was?
Not to be creepy, but I know who you are: I know your IP address, where you logged in from, how you found my blog, what city you live in, what pages of mine you visited and for how long.
So, even if you are wussy enough to call yourself “anonymous”, you aren’t. Just let me be a weirdo over here in my little world. And, I’ll allow you the same.