By which I mean, hey, world, here I am.
I’ve started writing this 87 mazillion times. Sometimes I’m funnier, more irreverent. Sometimes I’m annoyingly earnest and far too forthcoming. Always I’m an oversharer and indignant. No surprise there, people.
And this isn’t exactly a proclamation of existence, because all that crying I did for the first 3 days 18 months 26 years was a pretty good announcement.
But I digress even before I get to the point. (Skillz right there.)
It’s hard to do this Start A Blog thing. I have, of course, thought about it for months, envied and loved on all those people who do this seemingly effortlessly, cried in frustration and wiggled with excitement. Which means I’ve over-pressured myself like whoa, because that’s how that works.
I mean, this is not the livejournal I had at 15 when I was so very angsty and really had it goin’ on . Aaand it’s not my Facebook, which, I might add, is hysterical. And it’s not my Twitter feed, which is really fucking amazing. #justsaying.
Also: you get to read it. Which is new. But only if you want to. Because forcing you would just be cruel. Or maybe the best thing to ever happen to you? Don’t know. Not my call.
I would know what I was to do — you know, how. to. start. — if I had some goal, some executable objective, but mostly, I’ve just fallen in love with a number of really effing excellent blogs recently — and I wanna BEEEEEEEE them.
But no, that’s not it either.
I’ve always written. Essays and short stories and excellently angsty poetry. (Seriously, y’all, there’s this poem I wrote in, like, 3rd grade about water in a stream flowing over pebbles CAN’T YOU JUST SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING that my daddy still talks about today because it was so excellently ANGSTY.) No, but really.
Also, WordPress, wtf do you MEAN “angsty” isn’t a word? Eff you and your little dog spell check, too.
Aaaaaand it’s also for (bear with me) serious things. Like posterity. Which I still think should mean something to do with your bum.
But it’s true: I want to finally write down those childhood memories before my brain really does delete them altogether. I want my mother to get to read the touching stories I write in my head and can never tell without the hiccuping, can’t-breathe, teary recitation she gets. I want, someday, to tell my babies about how funny I was before I had them and became the evil creature I will be someday. Someday, of course.
And then there’s you: Whomever you are. You terrifying creatures. Full of judgment and mirth in a bad way at me. I know you’re out there.
I just hope you’re as snarky as I am.