Why do I keep a blog?
This is a rhetorical question--don't bother trying to answer for me.
I mean, the informational world is spinning around us like so many grains of sand--why should I bother putting one more grain in that big fat dust cloud of electronic space? I don't even understand how internets work. It has something to do with space and time and energy and telephone wires. Or satellites. Or DSL. Or cable modems, or something run by wee little men in spandex running suits.
Wait, that's The Blue Man Group.
And then, there's this larger issue with the blog. Other than it getting me fired. No, it has to do with popularity of blogs. I've read a blog where 146 people on average are commenting. 146, I say. That puts my blog to shame.
There's political blogs.
There's satirical blogs.
There's fashion blogs.
There's knitting blogs.
There's 'insane people keep blogs' blogs.
There's 'watch my kids grow up' blogs.
There's music review blogs.
There's inanely boring blogs.
I think that's the one my blog falls under.
Inanely boring.
Half the time, I don't even edit these entries before I click 'post'. I guess I'm torn. Part of me doesn't care.
"This is my mundane, dull blog about my mundane, boring life! If you don't like it, then fine!" (But more realistically, no one's reading it).
Then, there is the other part of me.
"I want to be popular, too!"
I want publishing companies to send books my way to review, simply based on my reputation as femme fatale blogger. I want 'The Washington Post' to keep its eye on me. Hell, when I had 50 homeschooling parents attack me by the electronic jugular and shake me around like a rawhide bone, I was thrilled. My stats shot through the roof. I was in blogger-popularity heaven. Like hungry red ants, however, my blog was devoured in two short days; the homeschoolers have moved on to the rainforests of South America, eating unknown species by the bucketful.
Simply, my blog is my amusement for the time being. There's nothing new written here. Sure, I talk about getting older, and how much I love Michael, and what it means to be me. But here's the truth: I'm really not all that fascinating. I don't know how to frame words as hubris. I haven't got a grasp of grabbing readers and thrusting them into my mundane life as others do. It's frustrating. I find going to a grocery store a challenge. The people! The carts! The selection of coffee! Overwhelming.
How am I supposed to keep you amused when that's the highlight of my day? Going to the grocery store? Fighting off shiny Lexuses (Lexi) with 'Bush' stickers while I drive down this strip-mall ridden street? Watching the same shows you watch at home? Eating the same food? Doing the same things that everyone has done, except with a Fritz edge? Edge--hah! More like a dulled plastic knife. That's what I do--I slowly bludgeon my readers to death with a spork. It's like reading Tolstoy, without the pleasure of saying, "I finished War and Peace!"
I think my blog is as angst-y as my poetry from high school. Horrible, really. Terribly cliche. Gratuitously predictable.
But it's my blog, dammit. And I'll stab it death with that spork if I wanna. I'm on this really long path to individuality. It seems like this blog isn't so much about blog popularity, but the grayness of existence. Who am I? Why am I here? What is my purpose?
And even there: dull, dull, yawn, vomit. That's something we've all asked, yes? Every moment, we're asking that of ourselves. "Why?" So, even in my quest for enlightenment, I'm about as thrilling as yesterday's wet socks. And then--even if I REACH enlightenment, it's going to be the same enlightenment that everyone else has reached, and that's kind of...ordinary. It's like the house brand of existentialism. It's watery and silly; just add jello powder and I'll jiggle. Philosophically, of course. With chunks of tangerine stuck in my ego.
No, no. Don't bother consoling me. I know I sound like that dratted robot Marvin, from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. So be it. This is my frivolous blog.
And I'll cry if I want to.
