Ordinarily, resignation letters start off saying something to the effect that “it is with a heavy heart”, or, “this has been the most difficult decision I’ve ever had to make”.

Not this one.

After 6,053 posts over the past six years — and that’s not even counting the entries at my other three blogs or at Pajamas Media — I’ve reached a point where I no longer feel the least bit interested in spending my days online.

Truth is, lately I’ve found myself wondering why I felt compelled to blog in the first place. To change minds? Hah. I’m not so naive as to believe that one blog entry, or even a slew of them, has any meaningful influence on someone’s political persuasion. To communicate with others? Well, sure. That was the fun part… until “social media” like Twitter, Facebook, et al., turned interaction into a nonstop slew of mental diarrhea streaming live 24/7.

Looking back, I realize that dissatisfaction with my own life was the greatest impetus behind my blogging. Because, let’s face it, my adventures with Venomous Hubby provide an endless source of snark-filled fodder.

Or so I thought.

In the past two months, as I’ve spent increasingly less time online, I’ve discovered something profound: it’s not that I was dissatisfied with the life I was living, it’s that I was living too much of that life online.

Staying away from the computer on a regular basis has given me the time and mental energy to appreciate my loved ones, to accomplish projects I previously believed I didn’t have time for, and to simply take pleasure in being without feeling the compulsion to share every detail of my existence with the online community. (It’s also helped me shed 17 of the far-too-many-to-admit-in-public pounds that I’ve put on in the past 6 years as my life dwindled to the space between my bed, fridge and laptop.)

So, dear blogosphere, it is actually with a very light and happy heart that I am writing this to tell you of the easiest decision I’ve made in quite some time. I’d wondered how to quit you, and now I know: it’s just a matter of turning off the computer and seeing that the world, indeed, keeps going.

To all of my Venomites, I want to thank you for your loyal readership and witty comments over the years. Were it not for how much I know I’ll miss you, I’d probably have reached this decision quite some time ago. As it is, I appreciate your support and understanding, and please know that I’ll miss you, too.

I may be back. I may not. When I sit here thinking of my future it doesn’t involve blogging. It does, however, involve a whole lot of time unplugged from the online world and tuned in, instead, to my own life.

So, until we meet again:

Vaya con Venom,
VK

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Electric Venom turns 6 years old today! Why, it seems like just the other day I was sitting at my laptop worried that I’d somehow break the internet if I pushed the wrong button and wondering if I’d get in trouble for typing “fuck” on the internet.

For the first time ever, I’m not going to celebrate this blogiversary by promising to stick around another 6 years. Frankly, when I look back at all the hours and days that have passed by unnoticed for having existed beyond the confines of my monitor, it makes me just a bit blog weary. Or maybe that’s constipation. Hard to say.

At any rate, thanks to all of my readers for making life online far more interesting over the past few years than the stuff that’s happened away from the computer. You keep doing what you do so well, and I’ll consider doing the same.

My apologies for the silence around here lately but between feeling like death warmed over for most of the past week, and VH’s trip to Korea leaving me (once again) to parent solo, I’ve been more interested in screaming into my pillow than reading the news, much less forming a semi-intelligent opinion on it.

Which is not to say that I haven’t been blogging. I have, just not here. So here’s a sampling of what I’ve posted elsewhere which you’ve probably been too lazy to look into:

At I Think Therefore I Blog:

…And Then It Dawned On Me. An excerpt:

All weekend long I could not escape the feeling of impending doom. You know the one I’m talking about: that tickle in the pit of your stomach, the tension in the back of your throat, the pressure bearing down on your shoulders, the certainty that the ceiling above you — and the sky above it — is bearing down on your helpless ass.
In other words, my mother’s visit is a mere 29 days away.

Also, Rinse and Spit Please.

At Chubby Mommy:

Lessons from the Wii Fit. An excerpt:

You know how exercise is supposed to give you more energy? I’m still waiting for that part to kick in. I’m tired! Every morning when my alarm clock goes off, I am so tempted to hit the snooze button and go back to sleep. The only thing stopping me? My arms are too freakin’ sore to move quickly enough to reach the dang thing before that incessant buzzzzzing wakes up everyone else in the house.

Also, Eau de Moi.

At Queen of Snark:

Like a Bookmark in Your Poop. An excerpt:

So. I’d just finished scrubbing, pre-soaking, washing, drying and folding a load which consisted of nothing besides his underwear. Boxer-briefs, in case you’re curious. And while I folded one pair I noticed the crotch area is getting a little thin… as in, I could see the floor through some of the holes.

(Yes, God did bless my husband in that general vicinity — which might explain why I put up with as much as I do — but, honestly, I don’t understand how the man wears out 3 pairs of his underwear in the time it takes me to wear out one of mine.)

Also, Sign Language.

And, of course, there’s my Pajamas Media column asking Can Starbucks Really Offer “Value” With A Straight Face in response to which the rabid PJM commenters accuse Your Venomous Hostess of being obsessed with what other people think of me.

To quote my favorite cartoon duck: “Dey don’t know me vewy well, do dey?”

So, as far as blogging goes until Monday, the-the-the-the-the-that’s all, folks!

Kim has a thought-provoking piece on the Stimulapalooza:

Government can encourage or discourage the private sector. At the moment they are discouraging the private sector. Government wants to increase entitlements and increase government jobs. But if everyone is on the goverment teat with entitlements or employment, where does the money come from? Will government pay it’s employees with one hand and take from them with the other to pay the entitlements?

Go. Read.

My latest column, Batman, Smurfs, Spam and Nostalgia is up at Pajamas Media. An excerpt:

These days, nostalgia also means big business now that corporate America has begun to realize that everything old is new again. What we watch, what we eat, what we’re wearing, how we spend our free time, and where we’re doing it — our lives today don’t resemble the high-speed techno-dream once predicted by James Berry (no relation) so much as they resemble, well, our childhoods.

Quite some time ago, I asked you to contribute a Google-related haiku and you blew my socks off with your witty submissions.

Evidently, you impressed some other folks, too. Now you’re featured at Haiku.com.

Oh, stop smiling now.
Click the link and go visit.
Then hurry back here.

Should the new First Lady have worn a dress designed by an African-American on Inauguration Day? That’s the question behind my latest Pajamas Media column: Much Ado About Michelle Obama’s Dress.

My latest column, Virginity on the Auction Block, is up at Pajamas Media.

*Not mine.

Why, yes, I took a few days off from blogging. No particular reason: I just felt like it.

Unfortunately, I can’t point to anything I actually accomplished with all that extra time I had on my hands, but I sure feel well-rested!

This is my grand-niece, Gwyneth. If you’ve read any of my blogs for long, you know that I have never, ever posted a picture of a family member before, and that I have a strict policy about using pseudonyms for my relatives, particularly children.

This time I’m making an exception.

Today we learned that Gwyneth has methicillin-resistant Staph aureus, a frequently lethal skin infection more commonly known as MRSA. Please pray for her and her young parents, or if you don’t pray then please keep her in your thoughts.

There’s something about New Year’s Day that brings out the rebel in me.

Perhaps it’s the phrase “Happy New Year” itself, which seems to imply that misery and discord marked the previous 12 calendar months so here’s to hoping the upcoming ones will only be better.

Frankly, if we don’t count health problems and death in the family, 2008 proved to be a pretty damned good year for me, and there are definitely some parts of the past 12 months which I’ll mourn over not being able to live through again.

Or maybe it’s the way that people whose names I barely know somehow feel free to inquire what New Year’s Resolutions I’ve made. Whether it’s the lady who’s waxed my bikini line every two weeks for the previous year, the pharmacist who alone knows just how many pills or ointments I’ve needed and why, or the clerk at the drive-thru liquor store who’s grown accustomed to seeing me pull up in my pj’s without makeup at 5 minutes to closing time, what makes them think we’re on that good of terms?

What a truly hate about New Year’s, though, is all of the blank spaces ahead. The new wall calendar hanging pristinely in my kitchen, its empty dates begging to be filled with appointments and reminders of things I mostly want to avoid. The unfilled date line on the checks I write, each a small test to determine whether the passing of time has truly sunk into my brain. The empty Moleskine notebook I bought to use as a journal, and which now mocks my lack of personal insight.

Now that the Christmas decorations have been taken down and packed away, even my home looks empty and blank like the face of a model after her makeup has been washed off.

Yes, I suppose that barrenness could represent hope, a canvas upon which my life can take on new vibrancy, new detail. Those empty dates could easily represent possibilities for adventure, and upon the pages of my empty notebook perhaps I’ll write the next great American novel.

But they could just as easily suck and, if the past is any indication, most likely will. Why should I expect the ticking of a clock’s hand and the turn of a page on a calendar to change any of that? Seems like a lot of pressure to put on a year that’s only seconds old, if you ask me.

At least when it comes to those nosy people who insist on asking what my New Year’s Resolutions are, I’ve come up with an answer: in 2009 I plan to read the complete works of the Marquis de Sade, and also to find a better hiding place for the dead bodies.

That ought to shut ‘em up.

Birthday wishes and a Happy New Year to Buckley at The Nose On Your Face, my favorite source for political parodies and conservative humor. (And Islamic Rage Boy, too!)

After getting all excited over the prospect of my first tattoo, it turns out I’m not getting inked after all.

Seems that, according to my doctor at any rate, getting a tattoo while being miserably sick isn’t such a good combination. I don’t really remember her exact reasons, but it had something do to with me coughing and sneezing while ink-laden needles are jabbing into my skin.

Then when I pointed out the obvious solution — that I get so intoxicated as to pass out, thus making it unlikely I’d cough or sneeze — she pointed out that I can’t drink while taking the meds she prescribed, and if I actually want to get over this stuff that’s had me sick for going on 3 weeks now, I’d better take the damn pills.

So, no tattoo for me this year. Which is probably a good thing, because I never did ask VH how he’d feel about my ass bearing a tat which read “If lost, please return to…” followed by George Clooney’s address.

My latest column, Hooking Up is Nothing New, is up at Pajamas Media.

What a tale my thoughts would tell… oh, wait. You don’t have to wonder. Now you can read the new incarnation of Queen of Snark (me, uncensored… unfiltered… unkind) where I tell ALL as well as tell off every idiot who’s ever annoyed me.

But be warned: you just might think that blog entry’s about you, and, chances are you’d be right.

*Apologies to my beloved Gordon Lightfoot.