So until recently, I thought to myself, "Who the hell blogs? I mean what kind of a narcissist thinks that the world at large really wants to know what anyone else is doing or thinking at any given time? Sheesh!" (Although I've never actually heard anyone outside of a '50s sitcom say "sheesh" before.)
And then, I met my friend, Facebook.
That's when I realized two things about myself. A) I have a way-more easily addictive personality than I ever thought. And 2) I'm a total voyeur. I mean, I'm not a creepy, hide-in-the-bushes-watch-you-clip-your-toenails-on-the-couch-through-the-window voyeur. I'm not a sicko, for crying out loud. Just your normal, everyday, completely non-threatening nosy-ass. Although, you should be aware that you should clip your toenails in a more "straight across" fashion. Ingrown toenails are a bitch, my friend. Not that I'm watching you. Promise.
But, yeah, I admit it. I totally want to know what's going on in your life. Not necessarily the small things, or "boring things" as I commonly refer to them. Just the weird stuff... and the funny stuff. If you can make me laugh in 420 characters or less, we will totally be friends forever. However, Facebook, much like the Real World (Season 1 -- anything after that is just a bunch of booze hounds trying to score a gig at MTV), gives me full, sometimes awesomely unedited, views into people I sometimes barely know but are somehow brave enough to call me their "friend". It's like sneaking a peek at the first line in your diary. Wholeheartedly awesome.
Then, to a colleague, I expressed a desire to write more everyday, he suggested that I start a blog. What? Me? Blogs, I thought once again, were for people who had important things to share. Babies, charities, advice to people who had no real friends to tell them otherwise! This wasn't me! What did I have to share? "Duh. You share on your Facebook every day," was his response. "People seem to care about that." This was a person whose opinion I trust immensely, however, and I knew he wouldn't knowingly steer me into the wrong direction. So what did I do? I started to do a little research (because this is what I do. I ponder. I hem. I haw. I procrastinate and waste time in the name of "research"). Did you ever realize how many effing people blog? Thousands. Millions. I'd even say Cajillions if it were an actual point of reference. All of a sudden, I was overwhelmed by blogs. Some were pretty lame... others were pretty rad. (That's right... I said "rad". Twist off. I like it. I'm thinking about bringin' it back.) Some were weird, some were sweet, some were heart wrenching, and others were "shoot Diet Coke outta my nose" funny. But I couldn't escape the fact that many of these people were PUTTING THEIR LIVES ON THE INTERNET! Helloooo, McFly???? The internet is not private, and I was raised to cherish my privacy. So, I freaked out, slammed my laptop shut, and voted under the category of no-effing-way. I mean, fo' real... it's called a diary. Get one. They even come with dinky little keys to lock all your angst and neuroses away. In a diary, you can be nine kinds of bat-shit crazy, and NO ONE HAS TO KNOW. I was in complete, unashamed judgment. But, you know me, I was also absolutely entrenched in like 10 different bloggers' lives within moments. Still judging but in deep. It. Was. Heaven.
And, then, one day while throwing out a lifetime of accumulated crap I had moved seven -- count 'em, seven -- times in a myriad of crumpled cardboard boxes, I happened upon my own little, angst-ridden, chock full o' crazy junior high diary. After a short search for a hammer (because in the various moves I had lost that seemingly important, fail-safe key) to crack that bad boy open, there it was. A teeny, tiny pink book, plumb full of thirteen year-old insanity. An aside -- if you ever have the opportunity to go back and re-introduce yourself to who you were at 13, do it. It's painful and humiliating at times, but it's also fairly enlightening. Immediately, embarrassment flooded my soul, but as I read, I realized that when I was a kid, I wrote every day. Every last stinkin' day. I couldn't stop writing. I wrote about everything and everyone. And that fact made me sad because now I preach to entire classrooms of children about how cool it is to write, yet I never do -- but I digress. Sadness over.
Better yet, as a kid, I was funny. Weird... but funny. Awkward... but funny. People now tell me I'm fairly comical (and as you read this, you may think "wow... somebody done lied to her", but I don't know you, and, frankly, I could give a crap what you think, Stranger), but no one ever told me this as a kid. Ever. It's probably because most people terrified me as a child, so I didn't feel so open to sharing my innermost ramblings with them (and my innermost ramblings are the ones that are most awesome because they're dark and twisted and usually chock full of swear words, dramatic pauses, and emphatic finger pointing/flailing arms). In fact, I can clearly remember scouting out my room to find the world's best hiding place for my sacred diary because I was sure that my older brothers would find it and terrorize me with it. I had not fully realized how absolutely little they cared about whatever complete nonsense I was obsessing about. Yet, as I've grown up and met some pretty incredible people who adore my weirdness and appreciate me for all my smartassery, I've become much more willing to share. Much more ready to unlock the diary. So here I am, whoever you are. Determined to write some every day. Hoping to make you laugh a lot or maybe just think a little. Warning you that maybe I won't accomplish any of that, but welcoming you in anyway.
And you totally don't even need that dinky-ass little key.