How It All Began
The road to blogging…
I’m gonna write a blog about life.
I’ve been saying those words for so many years, I can’t even remember exactly when they started.
“I’m gonna write a blog about life,” I mumbled to myself one day in the far distant past, while glaring at a blank computer screen and pondering what I could put on it that might be somewhat, kinda-sorta interesting to the next person who looked at it.
It’s not like I had a lot of options. I don’t know enough about anything to pump out pages-long, mind-blowing dissertations. I mean, I know how to nod or frown in the right places during a conversation to make people think I know everything (my “questioning squint” is down to such a science that I could mentally gut-punch a college professor from 50 rows away). But faking the funk and trying to explain the historical origin and evolution of said funk are two different things. And once you add in a schizophrenic memory and short attention span, my options got way more limited.
But my life? I know my life. I’ve bled it, fed it, regretted it. Fallen in crush (later in love), had some of the best friends in the world before I lost them, and turned humiliation into performance art. My life haunts me, even after I’ve lived it – worming its way into my dreams or bulldozing into my thoughts when my guard is down. It demands to be remembered long after I’ve gone through therapy trying to forget it. It’s my life, and it wants to be told.
Too bad it keeps getting in the way of me telling it.
There’s work – the drudge of the daily nine-to-five that keeps me and my cats in the lifestyle to which we’ve become accustomed. It puts that closet full of clearance rack knockoffs on my back and a helping of 9lives on their designer paper plates. Mealtime is real time, and they’re not giving it up without a fur-flying fight.
There’s commuting – spending two hours of my day in mind-numbing traffic, using all my God-given willpower not to run someone’s poor old grandma off the road. A good reason I’m not a millionaire: Me + Unlimited Liability = Ditches full of Smart Cars too stupid to go the speed limit in the left lane.
There’s the chores, the cooking, the cleaning up cat vomit at five in the morning, the phone calls with friends in need of my amateur psychology, and all those little projects that have to get done that add up to hours of my life accomplishing nothing. Nothing important. Nothing existence-altering. Nothing that’ll put a Nobel Peace Prize on my shelf or a note-free Maserati in my garage.
But one day, I’m gonna write a blog about life. And you’re gonna laugh until you choke. And you’re gonna smile until your cheeks crack. And you might even get a little misty-eyed but try to play it off by acting like you’re wiping away an eyelash. And then you’re gonna ask me why it took me so darn long.
Because my blog will be funny and smart and insightful and nostalgic. It’ll be the bestest blog, EVER!
And I’m gonna write it.
As soon as life lets me.
The road to blogging…
I’m gonna write a blog about life.
I’ve been saying those words for so many years, I can’t even remember exactly when they started.
“I’m gonna write a blog about life,” I mumbled to myself one day in the far distant past, while glaring at a blank computer screen and pondering what I could put on it that might be somewhat, kinda-sorta interesting to the next person who looked at it.
It’s not like I had a lot of options. I don’t know enough about anything to pump out pages-long, mind-blowing dissertations. I mean, I know how to nod or frown in the right places during a conversation to make people think I know everything (my “questioning squint” is down to such a science that I could mentally gut-punch a college professor from 50 rows away). But faking the funk and trying to explain the historical origin and evolution of said funk are two different things. And once you add in a schizophrenic memory and short attention span, my options got way more limited.
But my life? I know my life. I’ve bled it, fed it, regretted it. Fallen in crush (later in love), had some of the best friends in the world before I lost them, and turned humiliation into performance art. My life haunts me, even after I’ve lived it – worming its way into my dreams or bulldozing into my thoughts when my guard is down. It demands to be remembered long after I’ve gone through therapy trying to forget it. It’s my life, and it wants to be told.
Too bad it keeps getting in the way of me telling it.
There’s work – the drudge of the daily nine-to-five that keeps me and my cats in the lifestyle to which we’ve become accustomed. It puts that closet full of clearance rack knockoffs on my back and a helping of 9lives on their designer paper plates. Mealtime is real time, and they’re not giving it up without a fur-flying fight.
There’s commuting – spending two hours of my day in mind-numbing traffic, using all my God-given willpower not to run someone’s poor old grandma off the road. A good reason I’m not a millionaire: Me + Unlimited Liability = Ditches full of Smart Cars too stupid to go the speed limit in the left lane.
There’s the chores, the cooking, the cleaning up cat vomit at five in the morning, the phone calls with friends in need of my amateur psychology, and all those little projects that have to get done that add up to hours of my life accomplishing nothing. Nothing important. Nothing existence-altering. Nothing that’ll put a Nobel Peace Prize on my shelf or a note-free Maserati in my garage.
But one day, I’m gonna write a blog about life. And you’re gonna laugh until you choke. And you’re gonna smile until your cheeks crack. And you might even get a little misty-eyed but try to play it off by acting like you’re wiping away an eyelash. And then you’re gonna ask me why it took me so darn long.
Because my blog will be funny and smart and insightful and nostalgic. It’ll be the bestest blog, EVER!
And I’m gonna write it.
As soon as life lets me.
The road to blogging…
I’m gonna write a blog about life.
I’ve been saying those words for so many years, I can’t even remember exactly when they started.
“I’m gonna write a blog about life,” I mumbled to myself one day in the far distant past, while glaring at a blank computer screen and pondering what I could put on it that might be somewhat, kinda-sorta interesting to the next person who looked at it.
It’s not like I had a lot of options. I don’t know enough about anything to pump out pages-long, mind-blowing dissertations. I mean, I know how to nod or frown in the right places during a conversation to make people think I know everything (my “questioning squint” is down to such a science that I could mentally gut-punch a college professor from 50 rows away). But faking the funk and trying to explain the historical origin and evolution of said funk are two different things. And once you add in a schizophrenic memory and short attention span, my options got way more limited.
But my life? I know my life. I’ve bled it, fed it, regretted it. Fallen in crush (later in love), had some of the best friends in the world before I lost them, and turned humiliation into performance art. My life haunts me, even after I’ve lived it – worming its way into my dreams or bulldozing into my thoughts when my guard is down. It demands to be remembered long after I’ve gone through therapy trying to forget it. It’s my life, and it wants to be told.
Too bad it keeps getting in the way of me telling it.
There’s work – the drudge of the daily nine-to-five that keeps me and my cats in the lifestyle to which we’ve become accustomed. It puts that closet full of clearance rack knockoffs on my back and a helping of 9lives on their designer paper plates. Mealtime is real time, and they’re not giving it up without a fur-flying fight.
There’s commuting – spending two hours of my day in mind-numbing traffic, using all my God-given willpower not to run someone’s poor old grandma off the road. A good reason I’m not a millionaire: Me + Unlimited Liability = Ditches full of Smart Cars too stupid to go the speed limit in the left lane.
There’s the chores, the cooking, the cleaning up cat vomit at five in the morning, the phone calls with friends in need of my amateur psychology, and all those little projects that have to get done that add up to hours of my life accomplishing nothing. Nothing important. Nothing existence-altering. Nothing that’ll put a Nobel Peace Prize on my shelf or a note-free Maserati in my garage.
But one day, I’m gonna write a blog about life. And you’re gonna laugh until you choke. And you’re gonna smile until your cheeks crack. And you might even get a little misty-eyed but try to play it off by acting like you’re wiping away an eyelash. And then you’re gonna ask me why it took me so darn long.
Because my blog will be funny and smart and insightful and nostalgic. It’ll be the bestest blog, EVER!
And I’m gonna write it.
As soon as life lets me.