Blogiversaries: like birthdays without the presents or money
OR: A year ago today I lost my mother fucking mind.
“If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron
Last week I received an email (or maybe a comment.) from someone claimed to be “addicted to [my] blog”. Which made me tempted to change the tagline to No Pasa Nada: Just like crack or something equally as unfunny. I can see where the addiction might come from; all of those times I discuss random shopping excursions, having sex on an ibook, a dependence on McDonald’s, why Meredith Gray is an evil whore and MC Hammer – yup, addictive indeed. I can picture this woman sitting alone and looking forlorn, tears streaming down her face as she stares at the monitor, saying between sobs “I wish I knew how to quit you HB”. No Pasa Nada: Like your favorite gay cowboy.
There’s really nothing funny about graduating from College. There’s also nothing remotely amusing about having $5.45 in your savings account or contemplating writing erotic literature for money because you have a “flare for the written word and an active imagination.” (someone actually said that to me. Seriously) So terribly unfunny but sadly one of those things that one must go through. It’s inevitable, right up there with death and taxes, so is being forced to pay your own rent. Of the very few things that I enjoy about myself, I can say that I enjoy my ability to see reality for what it is and to (sometimes) rationalize the absurdity of things right now. It’s so fucking trite. Everything right now is trite bullshit that will get better in a few years. It won’t ALWAYS be like this. But then again I also have a flare for hyperbole and am convinced that when things are fucked in my little world that that is how it will be and I should probably toss myself off a balcony. The point is to make the very unfunny, into something close to mildly amusing, because everyone goes through this period of life and while it sucks, it’s nice to know that I am not the only one.
My dramatic outbursts and my amplified statements as to why things are going to Hell in a hand basket are precisely the reasons for why my parents sent me 400 miles away: Because they could not deal with the talking and the drama and the endless hypothetical situations based solely on irrational thought. Thus the reason for why when I say thank you to you all and want to hug and maybe lick you, I really truly mean it. Despite the endless prosaic rants and the fact that I use the word ‘fuck’ no less than four times when speaking of small children, means that you all are either hardcore sadomasochists (Good for you!) or you have been here before. Here in this place that I affectionately call purgatory when one is always dangling precariously awaiting the next bad thing to happen: The ‘bad thing’ which always ends up being that ‘stupid thing that happened and I really can’t remember why I was crying and threw a wine glass on the floor’. It’s times like that when I realize that this is just how it is until one turns 25.
(And please don’t use this moment to tell me that things do not get better because then I’ll kick you.)
(Oh and thanks for helping me work through my propensity for violence)
I could say that I do this because it’s cheaper than therapy (and closer) and that I just love the internet with every fiber of my being. Though the story is that I am an eternal narcissist and read an article about Stephanie Klein and it snowballed from there: Into emails to random pregnant women about babysitting their unborn child and slight indiscretions against my leasing office and a 72 hour jaunt to
So if you all continue to wait with baited breath about my awful life of visits to
sporksteak knife in your eye, for you’ve been properly warned.