A kind visitor (?) to my blog said they could increase the traffic to my blog. How kind. I am utterly dubious.
This blog is now a symbol of my dying love for writing. Or is it?
This blog is a symbol of my inability to write.
I used to think I would become a writer. Now I don’t know what the hell to write about. A lot has changed since I aspired to write for the local paper. Look, it was 2003, keep your ‘omg does anyone even READ newspapers anymore?!’ jokes to yourself. Mostly because jokes making fun of the recent past are the easiest jokes to make.
Ipod? Okay, grandpa!
You want me to VIDEOTAPE you? Okay…grandma!
You want me to help you find your way back to your time machine, because you are a traveler from 1850 and you just spend some time on reddit and now you want to get the fuck back to your time, scurvy and all? Okay…..great great great grandpa!
Anyway, I think I made my point. Uh….Oh. Right. That I can’t write anymore.
I suspect that, perhaps, we just change over time, and there’s nothing we can do about it- Except complain incessantly to anyone who will listen.
Well, reader, that ‘anyone’ is you. Thank you kindly. Let me continue my whine.
I accepted that I won’t write anything groundbreaking or anything even ungroundbreaking. (i can invent words if I want)
But I haven’t fully accepted that sometimes I just don’t know what the hell to say anymore. How do you even poke fun at the world, like I used to? Everything is a parody now. Or is that a damn COP OUT? PERHAPS.
Or maybe I just haven’t found the THING to write about.
As you know, Julia Roberts Ate, Prayed, and Loved (she totes had sex with some guy) her way across India, Italy, and…..somewhere else. I dont have google.com, so I cant look it up for ya. Well, Julia Roberts is rich as fuck, unlike most broke ass Americans, so we simply do not have the luxury of quitting our jobs and eating copious pasta. I suppose we could quit our jobs and eat copious pasta in our homes, but that doesn’t sound like the good premise for a FEEL GOOD hollywood movie aimed at 25-45 year old women such as myself.
Perhaps I can write about my inability to write. My lack of imagination. My feeling that I just don’t have enough time anymore, except, really, I do. I found time to learn Spanish, to learn gardening, to run road races back in the day (and burn off my knee caps in the process, but that’s another story)
But this feeling of having nothing to write is a new feeling. I dont think it stems from depression, or sadness, or even from heartburn. Although, heartburn sure is annoying.
I suppose I am in a phase. Once, I had a low carb phase. I mean, low carb seems the way to go, but I sure as hell didn’t stick with it. The siren call of pizza was too much to resist. I do, however, have a delightful low carb book.
Another time, I had a pizza phase. And now, it is my ‘What the HELL do I write in my blog?’ phase!
It’s ok, my elders tell me, ‘it’s just a phase. You just haven’t met the right blog topic yet. ‘