I know what you’re thinking, “Wait, blogging is cool? Since when?” Of course it’s cool…or not cool, obviously, because it’s too mainstream. But anyhow, the point is, I was totally doing it before like, it went all viral on the internet and stuff. Now you’re thinking, “Wait, that doesn’t make any sense, you invented blogging? But I thought you just started this, like a year ago?” Ok, don’t worry, I promise to explain, and also to stop talking like a valley girl (like, maybe).
So when I was just a child…as in from the point at which I could write, I was blogging. Back then, we called it keeping a diary, and it required a pen and paper. It usually involved describing your inner thoughts in a place that no one was supposed to read. It was where I could be open and honest and sort through things. Where I could figure out which boy I really liked more, and document the subtle cruelties of having two older brothers.
Good heavens, she’s right! She was totally a blogger (these italicized things are totally your thoughts by the way)
Even back then I was terrible at keeping a steady log. I would sporadically write. Sometimes it was every day, and sometimes I was diligent at making sure I didn’t write anything for weeks…or months…until I desperately needed it. Until somehow I got to the very brink of going insane, before I remembered I’d been practicing the perfect therapy. That’s what blogging is for me. It’s therapy.
Wait, so does that make me her therapist? Am I getting paid to read this? Should I be getting paid to read this? You’d totally have to be paying me to still be reading this…
And just like my diaries, I write in a train of thought meant for only me to understand. It is written specifically for me to cope, or document, or explain. It’s written for me to put my innermost feelings on paper, in a secret place where no one will ever read them.
Wait, is she being serious? Like, I know I don’t understand half of what she says because, ADD! ADD! ADD! But, she does know, I’m reading this right? Wait, am I getting paid for this?
Except of course that everyone someone will read them. Just like my diary. Except I’m pretty sure no one will ever actually read my diaries. I am pretty sure they won’t care just how many different ways thirteen year old me could modify my initials, only to realize the ones I have are really the only ones I plan on actually keeping. But I always assumed that they would. I can tell you this, in confidence, not because I remember having the feeling like someone was sneaking in and stealing my secrets, but because I wrote an entire diary where each entry began “Dear Reader”…as if someone would find it and give two sh*ts. Someone other than me of course, who would desperately like to find that diary but currently can’t, because I’m not sure if it’s part of another one, or an actual separate book. Who knows. I’ve never completed an entire diary in my life. Legitimately. It’s on my list of things to do before I die (most people call that a bucket list…), and then I crossed it off my list, because I thought I had completed one. But then just now, when looking for my “Dear Reader” diary, I realized the book I thought I finished was still half empty, and I drew a lot of stick figures showing the spacial orientation of party guests. See, I’m so good at blogging.
Wait, was that supposed to make any sense? Was I supposed to get that? I think I missed it. But I’m pretty sure, it means you have an internal struggle over who you want to be, and you need to follow your heart…or something like that? Wait, are you still sitting on my couch? Are we done here?
Yes. We’re done here.
Author’s note: No one received compensation for reading this post, though many of you probably should. Thanks anyways peeps! xoxo Anna
Editor’s note: It’s late and I can’t sleep, so this is what you get. Deal with it. Also, the editor would like to note, that in this case, she is the same person as the author, which is not true in all cases. Perhaps in the future, I’ll let my actual editors make notes. But maybe not.
The Afterlife 