A blog, you say?
Where the fuck did the word blog come from anyway???
It sounds like what was hiding underneath the bridge.
I’ve decided that if a blog were an actual object it would most definitely be green. I’m talking a dark, marshy “foresty” kinda green. And let’s face it, we all know that itain’t easy being’ green. Just ask the charming yet perpetually anxiety ridden object of Mizz Piggy’s undying affection. Or your front lawn as it succumbs to the wrath of the lawnmower on a Saturday afternoon like some “The Nature of Things” gore scene from The Chainsaw Massacre.
Now where was I?
Oh yes. The blog.
Maybe it’s because I’m going to be a writer when I grow up. Except…well…I am grown up. Textbook adult.Technically, anyway. Real grownups aren’t supposed to play old school Mario on their swanky new Super Nintendo(thank you eBay) until 4 am on a Tuesday night while devouring Valentine’s Day cupcakes that were supposed to be for work (screw you Valentine). Real grownups aren’t supposed to be terrified in the middle of the night when they’re in bed that some freaky little child will be standing there mouthing “redddd rummmm” if they dare open their eyes. I’ve been waiting for this grown up thing to kick in for some time now to no avail. When I stop drinking out of the juice carton instead of dirtying a glass, secretly imagining a much more dazzling version of myself as the “star” in my mind’s made up music video to all of myfavorite songs and cease the continuing reign as the victor in the “I hit you last” game with my twenty eight year old sister, I’ll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, I intend to fake it. I’ve armed myself with an oversizedpurse, a Costco card, and an increased concern to not drink too much water before bedtime.
In other words, I got this.
I’m no good at introductions. Introductions and figuring how to put back on the duvet cover after washing it. I am a deceptively extraverted person who is secretly introverted and horrifically shy until I feel comfortable enough to breathe my truths which has been known to take more than two years if I have any say in it. I am torn between loving the human race and loathing eight out of the ten people in the room at any given time. I once fell in love with a Safeway bag checker in seven minutes and I can never find my bankcard thus inducing the continual walk of shame to my nearest TD Bank for yet another new one seventeen times a year. I like grapes. I have a tendency to suddenly start developing “symptoms” of every friggen disease I read about on the internet (numbness…tingling…swelling…ohmygoditotallyhavethis!!!”) and have been known to confess my undying love for my mother to a 911 operator in the midst of a self diagnosed heart attack that turned out to be a lovely bout of humiliation the attending physician called “anxiety” as I blinked back at him basking in the glow of awesome-I’m-fucking-crazy. I don’t know how to love myself. I cry at World Vision Commercials and make neurotic obsessive lists with pressing goals that I never finish and my ridiculous tendency to over apologize reached an all time low recentlywhen I heard myself apologize to a q-tip that I dropped off the dresser.
What can I say; it was name brand.
Anyway, although I’m pretty confident that the only person reading this blog will be me, myself, and my mother (“Oh Keisha-what a LOOOOVELY story you wrote today; you’re SURE to make your mark on the world”) dammit, I’m starting one anyway if not only to cross it off my obsessive compulsive iphone list in which it has lay lurking for the past eight months, directly underneath “Look into therapy” and “Buy more q-tips”. Besides, if I write it I can identify myself as one of those deep, sullen and angst ridden artsy people that sit in coffee shops late at night with a shitty latte in one hand and a brooding expression looking down at the other as I wait for my next inspirational thought to magically leak from my pen. I’ll get a black cat, start a vinyl collection, wear a weird hat, and explain nonchalantly to my friends “It’s for my art”.
Way to stereotype, Keisha. . If you happen to be a feline loving artist in a blue and yellow floppyish hat with a flair for poetry and a kick ass vinyl collection, I’m really sorry. If I come across as bitter and jaded scroll back up to the Safeway bag checker mark and know that I am likely to love you in less time than it takes to make a waffle. Know as well that if I think I’ve hurt someone I’m likely to break down and weep openly as a monotony of apologies comes raining down as I stand at the 7-11 counter making you feel both forgiving as well as totally awkward and uncomfortable.
Right mom? Uhh…mom??