Holy fucking shit.
Wait, what did I manage to do now? Did I leave my bra in my parents’ driveway again? Wake up three hours from home or accidentally end up with four guys snorting coke off of my naked ass? No, no, I can assure you that (unfortunately) I am actually quite put together and simply sitting in front of my little laptop as per usual. But… really? Jesus Christ.
It took a couple of minutes to register (alright, a couple beers and a drag or two) but I’ve actually been maintaining my own little corner of the internet for a solid year. A year, people. That’s more dedication to a self-motivated project than I ever would have thought possible of someone who can’t sit still for more than, give or take, five seconds at a time. And the fact that it’s not just a project but a bloody blog? That takes not only devotion, but an acquired ability to force myself to avoid gagging at the very thought that I have joined the hundreds of thousands who believe their mundane, laundry and traffic filled days are worthy of sharing. My ambitions are paired with those who feel it’s their duty to tell us their sister called them fat? Ugh.
I recently decided, though, that I would instead call it my “storysphere” and completely avoid the travesties of labelling my work and my glory as a “blog.” This way, I get to pretend that my eventual infamy is more of a reality than it would be were I just any other 19 year old woman sitting in a pub and publishing completely irrelevant material to the internet. This being obviously impossible, seeing as I really think of myself as more of a chick or broad- never mind woman.
The most fantastically bizarre thing about realizing that I’ve been supplying the internet with my nonsensical opinions and stories for over a year is realizing that there are actually saps out there who read it. Not only have I managed to convince the people who love me, but those who have only my stories to go on to applaud me for being a disaster. On top of it, there are still those who insist I work it like a real writer and try to market myself for my own benefit. Doing what; stripping with my web address written on my tits? Actually, now that I think about it, that just might be a fantastic idea- plus, it’s likely to draw in my target audience and make me all the more eligible to star on Jerry Springer.
It must be said that it is nonetheless more rewarding to know that there are people who appreciate my self-importance over that of the person who believes we care that they got dumped; especially since I never really liked that Humble Pie my mother was always talking about. The most satisfying part about managing to maintain my storysphere, however, is not the underground writer’s scene nor the obvious adulation I come across on a daily basis, but that I get to talk about myself for hours on end and call this “marketing.” So there, basement bloggers! Besides, who gets laid telling people they write a blog?
Wait, what did I manage to do now? Did I leave my bra in my parents’ driveway again? Wake up three hours from home or accidentally end up with four guys snorting coke off of my naked ass? No, no, I can assure you that (unfortunately) I am actually quite put together and simply sitting in front of my little laptop as per usual. But… really? Jesus Christ.
It took a couple of minutes to register (alright, a couple beers and a drag or two) but I’ve actually been maintaining my own little corner of the internet for a solid year. A year, people. That’s more dedication to a self-motivated project than I ever would have thought possible of someone who can’t sit still for more than, give or take, five seconds at a time. And the fact that it’s not just a project but a bloody blog? That takes not only devotion, but an acquired ability to force myself to avoid gagging at the very thought that I have joined the hundreds of thousands who believe their mundane, laundry and traffic filled days are worthy of sharing. My ambitions are paired with those who feel it’s their duty to tell us their sister called them fat? Ugh.
I recently decided, though, that I would instead call it my “storysphere” and completely avoid the travesties of labelling my work and my glory as a “blog.” This way, I get to pretend that my eventual infamy is more of a reality than it would be were I just any other 19 year old woman sitting in a pub and publishing completely irrelevant material to the internet. This being obviously impossible, seeing as I really think of myself as more of a chick or broad- never mind woman.
The most fantastically bizarre thing about realizing that I’ve been supplying the internet with my nonsensical opinions and stories for over a year is realizing that there are actually saps out there who read it. Not only have I managed to convince the people who love me, but those who have only my stories to go on to applaud me for being a disaster. On top of it, there are still those who insist I work it like a real writer and try to market myself for my own benefit. Doing what; stripping with my web address written on my tits? Actually, now that I think about it, that just might be a fantastic idea- plus, it’s likely to draw in my target audience and make me all the more eligible to star on Jerry Springer.
It must be said that it is nonetheless more rewarding to know that there are people who appreciate my self-importance over that of the person who believes we care that they got dumped; especially since I never really liked that Humble Pie my mother was always talking about. The most satisfying part about managing to maintain my storysphere, however, is not the underground writer’s scene nor the obvious adulation I come across on a daily basis, but that I get to talk about myself for hours on end and call this “marketing.” So there, basement bloggers! Besides, who gets laid telling people they write a blog?
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