On September 6^th, 2010, six days after a ridiculous deadline by which I wanted to launch, I tweeted my first oh that meredith post and, as you all know, a star was born.

I launched in a fit of impatience, with half the site’s pages blank and none of the buttons working.

I launched with a welcome post I’d written, rewritten, edited and had reviewed ten or so times.

I launched in the early days of the Great Autumn Clusterfuck of 2010, anxious to begin to build myself a home, here, in the community that had so embraced me.

I launched that night in an enthusiastic and rash decision to throw myself fully into the blogging community.

And it is so apt that tonight falls just a day after yesterday’s post over at Ms. Lizzy’s place, in my love letter to the internet.

I do so very much love it. And you. Each and every one of you who reads my words, tweets with me, comments or even just lurks – you have made my life better. You have made me better. Or at least more willing to indulge in petulant indignation.

Which I think we can all agree is a step in the right direction.

And with this love, I have learned so much – and I have learned that I have so much left to learn.

I’ve learned I love to write.

I’ve learned I hate to write.

I’ve learned I love to have to write.

I’ve learned I hate to have to write.

I’ve learned I’m still the same exacting bitch I always was.

I’ve learned a lot of warm fuzzy things about the online writerly community.

I’ve learned I have no ability at all to budget time.

I’ve learned I love twitter and am terrible at it, when doing anything else.

I’ve learned I produce some really ridiculous things when under the influence of almost anything.

I’ve learned that non-bloggers and non-blog readers think of blogging in a somewhat childish or negative light.

I’ve learned I want to set them straight. Sometimes with stabbing. #FuriouslyHappy

I’ve learned some of you have better taste in movies than others.

I’ve learned being asked to guest post humbles my grand ego.

I’ve learned there are finally people in this world who appreciate my love for silly hats.

I’ve learned that Google Analytics can make my day or make me feel desperate for attention.

I’ve learned that even if I can’t answer the scary questions, I can ask them.

I’ve learned I’m a much bigger attention whore than I thought.

I’ve learned the Georgia Bulldogs’ mascot is actually a zombie.

I’ve learned television is killing my brain, and I like it.

I’ve learned my press release skills can be put to good use.

I’ve learned I really am the worst twitterjail recidivist.

I’ve learned I’m easy to persuade into crazy athletic undertakings when enthusiastic.

I’ve learned you people really like my hair. No, I mean REALLY like it.

I’ve learned I cannot expect my geek to read my mind. Though I’m still guilty of assuming otherwise, on occasion.

I’ve learned my marriage prospects are not as low as I thought.

I’ve learned people really like it when you offer them baked goods.

I’ve learned sincerity requires black-&-white photos.

I’ve learned I don’t have to be funny to be interesting.

I’ve learned that my mind doesn’t stay made up for more than five seconds.

I’ve learned that I still want and want and want some more.

I’ve learned that half-nekkid photos sometimes get me out of twitterjail. (No, there’s no link to half-nekkid photos. So there. Hi, Daddy!)

I’ve learned there’s a whole world of people out there who get just as excited as I do over epic footwear and sparkly goggles.

I’ve learned I can ask for enablers or naggers and get them both.

I’ve learned that drunk blogging is fun and that people don’t really care how much sense I make.

I’ve learned that I can, in fact, attach a pheasant to a fascinator.

I’ve learned I never need to shop online alone again.

I’ve learned there’s a special place in my heart for ego jokes.

I’ve learned to take photos of myself I actually like — they involve ridiculous faces, upward angles and my cell phone camera.

I’ve learned having my own geek is indi-fucking-spensible.

I’ve learned there are people out there who’ve felt as I have and want to hear all about it.

I’ve learned that I can’t trust non-phone cameras to not hold awesome photos hostage.

I’ve learned one’s mother is an incredibly useful actor in the world of a blog.

I’ve learned that even if I can’t give details, people still care when I’m suffering.

I’ve learned that people actually will read poetry if I write it.

And I’ve learned that when shit is bad, bad enough I can’t tell you about it, you’re all still there, willing to hold my hand.

Major props to @HexingThoughts (as always) and @fetfet50 for help on tonight’s post!

Now, then. Let’s try this once more.

Today Yesterday, my loves, magic happened. The ULTA fairy arrived on wings dusted in the latest fall colors, full of shimmer, shine and fruity lip gloss.

We all know how I feel about lip gloss.

Despite my whiny, sick afternoon, I knew I wasn’t too seriously ill, as my desire to open the package immediately was stronger than the desire to curl back up into a feverish ball in bed.

Magically (read: by way of purchasing online & waiting for delivery), in that beautiful box were two fabulously new hair tools, both of which, oddly enough, look like scary sex toys.

And now, this is where my story BEGINS!

Though I was unable to host another twitter fashion show and was veritably forced to engage in battle in this latest skirmish in the from-time-immemorial war waged by, in and around my hair, I have prevailed, friendos. I have prevailed.

Asshole Camera, we all remember (because we read this post, riiiiight?), the sweet, young thing, HELD MY PHOTOS HOSTAGE LAST NIGHT, after I spent 2+ hours sacrificing for you (read: playing with new beauty tools), my dear, lovely readers.

Lest your memories go the way of mine, I will remind you: yesterday I was sick, it was a holiday, I burned my damn finger and fought with the camera. ALL. FOR. YOU.

What? It’s the new year. Gotta get my Jewish guilt in there, covering all bases.

Ok, so, anyway. We’ll just segue right here back to the original story about which I’ve now forgotten each detail and idea I had and pretend I did that smoothly.

The facts of this case:

1.   I have very long, very pretty hair. (In fact, about 6+ inches longer than this photo now.)

2.   This summer, I have come to fully embrace my girliness, in ways I never could’ve expected. Though receiving a treasure trove of lip gloss may have aided in said acceptance.

3.    My hairdryer has begun to smell like it wishes to burn down the entire house, or at least my luscious locks, at any given moment, killing us all in our sleep.

4.    I had a coupon.

And so, through the magical powers of online commerce, I have acquired two new tools:

The best part, of course, of the acquisition process is reading consumer product reviews and judging the stupidity of my fellow beautifiers harshly.

Shut up. You know you do it, too.

With each of the two titivating tools, the negative reviews all centered on the users’ inability to correctly operate the machinery. This, of course, provided wonderful fodder for pointing and laughing. Obviously you don’t like this product if you can’t even use it.

UNTIL IT HAPPENED TO ME.

Before I smashed the tool to pieces, it dawned on me that if you pressed this little button to release the attachment, you probably pressed it to put it back together. OH RIGHT.

Things went swimmingly from there, by which I mean I then finally began the process of doing my hair.

This process? Takes approximately 12 years each time I attempt it with ler hair, as it comes dangerously close to ler ass.

AND FINALLY (thank you for your patience) we reach the actual engagement of the tools, wherein I show you a few pictures, make a few snarky comments and we all go about our evening. Aaaaaaand GO:

After a good 45 minutes or so of brushing hair, with hot air — SO BRILLIANT — it is dry. Approximately the same time it takes to dry my hair with a hair dryer, but less arm strain. (Less arm strain? Wtf, it’s blowdrying hair.)

At this point, I stop phoning in this post and start paying attention once again. My favorite part of the evening comes now. The anticipation of the curls.

See, my hair’s heritage is Latvian/Lithuanian on the one side and Scots Irish on the other. Straight red brown hair, mixed with curly black brown. Overall, this simply means it’s stubborn, streaked with red when it feels like it, curly around my face and neck, and wavy or straight wherever it wants to be. And heavy. VERY FUCKING HEAVY.

My aunts, my father, my sister, they have beautiful curly hair. I have lived in the shadow of the curl for so long. And damn it, I’m tired of living in that shadow. I will stand on my own two feet with curly hair before you all!

Ahem.

I discovered around 24 or 25 that with enough product and that magical machine, the diffuser, I could have curly-ish hair.

Curly-ish is much closer to curly than wavy is. You’re welcome.

And then I discovered the curling iron.

Do not ask why I had not employed these tools in the past. I have no answers for you and the impertinence of the question may well bring you pain.

Anyway. Though the trusty iron brought me, indeed, even closer to ‘curly,’ the effort involved grew with the length of my hair. And fuck it, that shit’s long, k?

Which brings us back to this glorious day, the day of the new, conical, no-clip curling iron. Which, I must admit, was maybe one of the more difficult creatures I’ve ever used ever. Fucker is a pain in the ass. Which is why there are few photos of the process.

BUT. It is now time for the final evidence in this trial: the success of the curls.

Once more, with enthusiasm!

As you can all see, ladies & gentlemen of the jury, the verdict is clear: the hair is curly.

HOWEVER! I must caution you all! Take not this evidence and this decree as rule of law. Herein lies just one more determination:

I need a fucking haircut.

Today, my loves, magic happened. The ULTA fairy arrives on wings dusted in the latest fall colors, full of shimmer, shine and fruity lip gloss.

We all know how I feel about lip gloss.

Despite my whiny, sick afternoon, I knew I wasn’t too seriously ill, as my desire to open the package immediately was stronger than the desire to curl back up into a feverish ball in bed.

Magically (read: by way of purchasing online & waiting for delivery), in that beautiful box were two fabulously new hair tools, both of which, oddly enough, look like scary sex toys.

AND THAT’S WHERE MY STORY FUCKING ENDS.

Because the camera — the brand new camera — has decided to be an asshole. It has not yet presented me with its demands for ransom, but that’s all in good time, because I know — I KNOW — it has taken my photos hostage.

The hours I spent! Slaving over my hair! Playing with these new toys! Photographing myself with awkward faces! Achieving ridiculocurly somewhat scary hair! Annoying my mother! Ok, that one was a perk. But still! I BURNED MY FINGER FOR THIS.

LOST. ALL LOST.

Ok, maybe not all lost? but lost for now. Because the camera is a douchecanoe.

All this boils down to a new desire: wanting to write a post lambasting technology, which will lead invariably to a Kids-These-Days! rant, followed closely by a recounting of my childhood, in which walking up hill both ways barefoot to and from work at age 7 in the snow will feature prominently.

But I’ll spare you that one. This time. You’re welcome.

So then I think, you know what I need? OBVIOUSLY I need to move nearer to @HexingThoughts, my resident geek. (Y’all, she works for baked goods. It’s the best arrangement ever. Kisses, Hex!)

But the prospect of moving TO THE NORTH is, itself, FUCKING RIDICULOUS. Because it is the North. Where it is cold. Often.

I’m not sure I can adequately explain my inability to deal with the cold for any period of time over, say, three days.

Shut up. I don’t always have too much to say. I so don’t.

Let’s just move along, assuming you understand just exactly how much I hate the cold, pretending I’ve explained it in any way that makes sense.

And now that we’re here? I’m officially copping out. Breaking the only promise I’ve made to myself here, which is to post every day. Ok, maybe this is a post. I suppose. And I’m wearing lip gloss.

Ok, ok, it counts. Yeesh, settle down.

That said, I will not let the terrorists win here, and I will get those damn photos. Tomorrow is a brand new day, Asshole Camera, and I will win this war.

::ANGRY WARRIOR YELL::

Ahem. Goodnight.