And then there was nothing.
So it didn’t exactly dawn on me when setting out on my dazzling new blogging career that I’d actually need to have something to say that would be even remotely interesting enough to read. There I was on a Tuesday night setting up my lovely new account, all rainbows and butterflies, carefree and breezy, nonchalant and indifferent to the impending pressure as I selected my user name (“drivingmizzkrazy-oh-myyy-what-a-brilliant-choice!”)…..meticulously picking out my titles and fonts… not a care in the world. Visions of the passionate writer slumped over the keyboard typing away into the wee hours of the night; candle burning furiously on the night stand (“wait-a-second-i-don’t-even-HAVE-a-night stand?!”) as I bared my soul and innermost thoughts to my eagerly awaiting readers. It was all so beautiful in the beginning. So natural. So effortless. So right.
It wasn’t until the deed had been done that the whole hindsight thing kicked in and ruined my happily ever after. There I was one week later as I opened up my laptop and logged into my account when the realization of what I had started clamped its vicious little claws into me. I took a sip of my way too hot coffee (“dammit-why-do-i-always-take-that-first-sip-when-i-know-its-still-too-friggen-hot?!”) a drag of my cigarette (“im-quitting-tomorrow-for-real-this-time-i-swear-to-god), stared panic stricken at the blank screen and thought to myself;
Oh god. What the fuck have I done?
I still haven’t decided what’s worse. A flailing attempt at writing a blog or the realization that I have nothing inside of my head that has any real significance. That I have no real significance. But I guess that maybe we’re all a little afraid of just that. Of opening ourselves up and finding out that there’s nothing inside.
I can “hashtag” to my hearts’ content (did-i-really-just-use-the-phrase-“to-my-hearts’-content??”) little pieces of who I am. Of what I am. Of the things I need to say. But when I do, they all feel so clinical. So impersonal. So blank.
Fear. Hope. Compulsions. Panic. Shame. Courage.
Putting a little number sign in front of them isn’t enough but expressing them so that they make sense….stringing all of the words together in a way that flows…in a way that explains what it feels like…what this feels like…well that’s a different story.
My life is like a song that I don’t quite know all of the words to. Like when you’re singing along to the radio in your car and you think you know the next line. And you kind of do but the words come out all mixed up and some of them are in the wrong order. And some of them you know and you hit them dead on but some of them are off key and you can’t get them out in time to the music. So you trail off at the end of each verse as you look out at the world through the window and just do the best you can. Because you like the song even if you can’t seem to get it right. And because regardless of how hard it is to do it perfectly….well…it’s still worth singing.
Whoa. What’s with all of the seriousness all of a sudden? How the hell did I go from rainbows and butterflies to intense- thoughts- therapy-101 within a few paragraphs? They’re butterflies for god sake. You can’t have shame, panic AND butterflies in the same blog. It’s against the rules. Total policy breach. It’s in the handbook. Section 17. Somewhere between a ban on the term “yolo” and overuse of the “this-is-the-eighty-fourth-sexy-“selfie”-of-me-in-my-bikini-gazing-nonchalantly-into-the-distance” clause.
But I digress.
Hey, speaking of butterflies, I saw one today. Yeah, I totally did. It flew into the passenger side of my car window and hung out on my steering wheel for a few minutes before fluttering away. Maybe it’s a sign that the rainbows are coming?Or maybe I just spend too much time in my car.
It’s hot and I have air conditioning. Don’t judge me.