I have a folder on my computer of all my writing over the past four years, most of which are long, paragraphless ramblings about relationships and feelings that are as foreign to me now as Azerbaijani. Twice in the past year and a half I wrote a first blog post, and, wisely, did not take the steps to set up a blog that I knew I wouldn’t maintain. But old writing is always entertaining to read, and I seek to publish much of it on my blog. So here’s the first, first post, originally written on 5/12/11:
Lately, a lot of people have suggested to me that I write. I’m sure the “adults” in my life, like my therapist (who I love!) and my aesthetician (AKA my second therapist slash fairy godmother), meant that I ought to keep a journal. Because that’s what people who were born before the introduction of the countertop microwave oven and who grew up with Larry Page and Sergei Brin’s parents tend to suggest.
But I was always the girl in school who used a computer to write out her homework, I take typing tests for fun, and my left arm feels a faint ache every time I merely think of putting a pen in my hand to do more than sign a check to Time Warner Cable (there’s a good joke in here somewhere about how every time I pay my bill, an angel gets Lyme disease, but I’m too distracted by the fact that cable costs $60 per month, and I still can’t watch No Reservations). These wrists were made for typing, and that’s just what they’ll do. One of these days these fingers are gonna write all about you!
So, here we are. I know my friends will get a kick out of this at least, and it’ll put those gchat logs and Facebook messages to good use. I don’t think my life smells as bad as the dirty laundry of someone who recently stepped out of a Bikram yoga studio, say, but I’ve got my fair share of witty commentary about online dating and Twitter direct messages to last me at least a couple of weeks until I get tired of the tone of my own rhetoric and e-mail myself asking if I can just shutthefuckup.