Back in January, I had this idea that to celebrate 10 years of blogging, I’d post every old dispatch of “news from the flip front” (what this blog used to be called until last year) to this blog. I got a pretty good start, or so I thought, and then I just got lazy and forgot about posting the rest.
Story of my life.
When I started writing the flip front ten years ago today, I probably didn’t think that I’d still be blogging about my life today. Or that my life had, for the most part, remained unchanged. I think I thought I would have moved on because I was 24 when I started doing this, and I hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do with my life.
Ten years later, I still have no clue. That’s still the same. Also: I’m still single. I still work at the same company that employed me then. I’m still fat.
I AM STILL AWESOME.
I still daydream about being a real writer.
Whatever the fuck that means.
Oh, I know what that means. It means you get paid enough to do that and only do that for a living. Though if I were being perfectly honest, I’d say being a real writer included a modicum of fame. Though, if I’m going to be even more honest, I’d like being a real writer to include a fuck-ton of fame.
I’m far too lazy, or maybe just uninspired, to be a real writer. I have too much fear and jealousy, and far too many excuses.
Which sounds to me like all this time, after all this blogging and blathering, that I’ve been sad and alone, crying while I type. That’s not been true.
Ask my friends, who’ve seen me fumbling for a notebook or my phone to make a note of something funny they said. Or, even better, when I’ve stuck a camera in their faces while they were, say, dancing or drinking, and then stuck it up on my blog for the rest of our pals to admire.
Ask my roommates, who’ve seen me hunched over three different laptops since 2000 (all Macs, by the way — where’s my sponsorship deal?), muttering to myself and squinting at the display as I try to remember if it was two nights before that I’d been hit on by a toothless dude at the bus stop, or was it a braless woman on the blue line two weeks before that.
Ask my readers, some of whom still just skim this blog to see if they’re mentioned. But the rest of them genuinely seem to read the whole thing! They might even ask questions! Or leave comments! I wish they’d do that more.
I think that after ten years, I’m still writing for myself. It’s worth remembering, this life. Which, for someone who is slouching through her thirties, is CRITICAL. Seriously, I’m forgetting stuff all the fucking time. It’s so sad.
But I have to remember all the sandwiches and hugs and friendships and roommates and apartments and leftovers and cigarettes (oh, the cigarettes) and beers and bus rides. Boys and girls and a boy who used to be a girl (but was only an acquaintance of mine).
Parties. Oh my god, the parties. Show of hands, who was at the Halloween party Molly and I threw where you had to come dressed as somebody who died in a notorious fashion, and not only did we have two people come as dudes who died in skiing accidents, but this guy TOTALLY came as Terri Schiavo?
But, yeah. Ten years of blogging. Ten years of being an amateur, of being immature, and shallow and, on occasion, not funny. Which would be the worst thing of all. Ten years of being not a real writer. I know that most of you would argue that I am a real writer, if not a real writer with the fame and the actual job where I get paid money to write words. And I’d beg to differ. Because I’m just a bitch like that.
So maybe we can come to some sort of compromise? Where to soothe my fragile ego, and thank you for your years of reading and commenting so I don’t come off like a total fucking ingrate, and in anticipation of more years of writing on my end and reading and commenting on your end, can we agree that if I’m not a real writer can I be an unreal writer instead? Where I write awesomely if not always consistently, and you’ll always want to read it even when I don’t feel like writing? But that will never happen because I’ll always want to write for me, and for you, and for anybody else who hasn’t read this little old blog yet.