You know that feeling you get when you're in the presence of someone who's just said something so ridiculously ridiculous that you are embarrassed for that person, even if the subject matter has nothing to do with you? It literally makes you physically embarassed. Anatomically, physiologically, and bodily embarrassed. You exhibit signs of bizarre corporal discomfort. Some people avert their gaze, hunch their shoulders, cringe uncontrollably. Other people go into fight-or-flight mode, their eyes on a high-speed chase for something - ANYTHING! - to avoid this veritable verbal nightmare. And then there are those who freeze immediately and can do nothing but fall victim to a torturous, redundant chorus of ohgodpleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstop. You get that squeamish sensation that riddles your body with uncontrollable, jerky movements, as if ants are crawling up your inner thighs. Kinda like rigor mortis, except you're still alive. And pretty much wishing you were dead.
Yeah, so that's how I feel - alternating somewhat equally between the three reactions - when I hear myself talking* about myself for longer than should be legally allowed. Now, this isn't necessarily a crazy-long time, but everyone's world has its own laws, and in mine...well, let's just say the legal limit is slightly less than the time it takes a 17-year-old to pound enough Red Dog to defy the legal DUI limit. (Even less time if said 17-year-old is a big, meaty football player...or just a really, really fat kid.)
But I digress. As I often do. You see, I have this stream-of-consciousness tendency that I just can't shake. In some writing arenas it could be considered a forte, but...damn, there it is again! Anyway. In this voyeuristic age, where "Peeping Tom" is a term that benignly connotes any prime time reality show (not even just cable anymore God I feel old), and Facebooking has not only become a verb, but a verb that even my mother is aware of...and routinely practices.** In a time when e-narcissism reigns, MySpace is ubiquitous and my weird uncle in Utah can secure a domain name to sell his fetish toys and ad space simultaneously, it is perplexing that I still have difficulty with the concept of blogs. Correction: the concept of me writing a blog. Don't get me wrong, I regularly enjoy the waggish rants and witty rhetoric of other blogs, but every time I sit down to write my own, I cringe, flee, or freeze. And pretty much wish I was dead.
However, not this time. I must face facts: these highly personalized forums are omnipotent, especially if you an aspiring writer (whether by trade, by hobby, or by the seat of your pants). Thus, I have forced myself to saddle up, face the music, and not write. If I am lucky (and by "I", I mean "you"), I will happily type my fingers to the bone by not writing about what I ate for lunch or the really nasty thing growing on my sister's toe. I won't yammer on about how a good man is hard to find (I'm certainly no Flannery O'Connor) or a penchant for sex on my desk (it's a blog on iVillage, gutter-minds). No one wants a lengthy description of my friend's creepy Oedipus complex (barely a friend, more like an acquaintance), or the bus route I take to my gynecologist's office.
Now I cannot promise that these dysfunctional - yet highly relevant, I swear - tidbits will not be peppered throughout for use as analogies, hyperboles, or desperate subliminal pleas, but so help me God, I will not allow myself to write about myself in the aforementioned ways. (Hmm. This is starting to sound eerily familiar to some sort of contract...no, this is not a self-fulfilling exercise assigned by my therapist. I don't even have a therapist. Yet.) But I digress...again...which doesn't really matter because I'm almost done. I'm not completely sure what will come flying out of my mind or mouth on any given day, so I predict a bevy of posts with varying topics and tones. There will, however, be one constant: I'm gonna end up saying some bad words, it's inevitable.
So I think I've covered it all. And in case I ever cover a little too much, hit "post", and then suddenly find myself sweating profusely while chanting, ohgodpleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstop, there's always a way to delete. And for that reason alone, you gotta fucking love a blog.
*Also applies to writing.
**Apologies to any of my high school classmates whom she has felt inspired to contact simply because she recognizes your name from our graduation program. Don't feel obligated to reply, she just feels cool because she knows how to "friend" someone. Much like her 90's matching flourescent running suits, this too shall pass.
