SNUFF THE LEADER WITH THE BAD-ASSED PLAN
It's been so long, blog. I don't know what to say. Sometimes I don't know how I feel about technology horning in on my life, or to be more accurate, I know that I don't like it but I don't know if I'm being a baby about it by lamenting. I really don't feel like being a luddite, all "Oh, all this technology is harshing my cool times." Because that just isn't me. But there's something about that endless self-documentation thing that doesn't strike me as wonderful or worthwhile the way it used to. Although, to judge from this opening, it would seem that I'm just as fond of navel-gazing as ever.
Blogs have become this semi-professionalized platforms for poets, places where they can hock their books and write about their daily struggles with lit mags and cities and what the fuck ever. But they also post their immensely erudite musings (and if you know me you know that I use this word with trepidation, even fear, because it is one of my LEAST favorite words, beaten out only by "funky") and sell a version of themselves as relentless talents. And my little offering could hardly be less professional, in fact usually it's all "hey! I just saw the craziest thing walking around today! Get hustle! Yeah!" and that, believe it or not, does not sell the books. Not like I have a book to sell or anything, just supposing.
Here's a brief summer update: I learned how to ride a bike, finally! I can really ride it around and shit! I rode it to the coffee shop just tonight, with the pretense of my friends walking along to make me feel more secure. I say "pretense" because I zoomed right by them and got to the coffee shop in no time, like a total hoss. But it was comforting to have them there because hey, that way if I crash into a car I won't be left to rot in the ditch, covered in ants. Thanks, friends.
Also, I managed to wait tables in a diner for about two weeks. Sometimes I feel secure in my decision to quit, and sometimes I feel like a quitter. I hate to say it, but maybe I'm too sensitive to wait tables. I mean, I take things too personally, not like I'm this shivering little daisy. But I did cry all the time. God, I was the waitress who cried all the time. By "all the time" I mean twice, but twice may as well be all the time considering it was only two weeks. Also I didn't get into the fancy writing conference I wanted to go to, I didn't get any good writing news, and I found some cockroaches in my apartment. And I had to have one of my ears irrigated. Thrilling shit, I know. Summer can be tricky.
Then again, I am totally glossing over the fact that I've gotten over one of my greatest challenges, and I'm talking life-long here. The bike thing is weird because I feel like everybody makes too big a deal of it or not enough of a deal at all. Some people are all, "Oh, you learned how to ride a bike? You didn't know before?" No, dumbass, that's why I had to learn. That's the whole point of learning, to do something you couldn't do before. Which, let's be honest, is just my fancy sensitivity again.
But tonight, riding on the dark streets of my neighborhood, I totally get every bike-obsessed thing I've ever read in zines. I understand every dreamy-eyed 20-something blissing out in the summertime. I remember so many times putting "learn how to ride a fucking bike" on my summer to-do list. And now it's here, and it's just the facts.
It's been so long, blog. I don't know what to say. Sometimes I don't know how I feel about technology horning in on my life, or to be more accurate, I know that I don't like it but I don't know if I'm being a baby about it by lamenting. I really don't feel like being a luddite, all "Oh, all this technology is harshing my cool times." Because that just isn't me. But there's something about that endless self-documentation thing that doesn't strike me as wonderful or worthwhile the way it used to. Although, to judge from this opening, it would seem that I'm just as fond of navel-gazing as ever.
Blogs have become this semi-professionalized platforms for poets, places where they can hock their books and write about their daily struggles with lit mags and cities and what the fuck ever. But they also post their immensely erudite musings (and if you know me you know that I use this word with trepidation, even fear, because it is one of my LEAST favorite words, beaten out only by "funky") and sell a version of themselves as relentless talents. And my little offering could hardly be less professional, in fact usually it's all "hey! I just saw the craziest thing walking around today! Get hustle! Yeah!" and that, believe it or not, does not sell the books. Not like I have a book to sell or anything, just supposing.
Here's a brief summer update: I learned how to ride a bike, finally! I can really ride it around and shit! I rode it to the coffee shop just tonight, with the pretense of my friends walking along to make me feel more secure. I say "pretense" because I zoomed right by them and got to the coffee shop in no time, like a total hoss. But it was comforting to have them there because hey, that way if I crash into a car I won't be left to rot in the ditch, covered in ants. Thanks, friends.
Also, I managed to wait tables in a diner for about two weeks. Sometimes I feel secure in my decision to quit, and sometimes I feel like a quitter. I hate to say it, but maybe I'm too sensitive to wait tables. I mean, I take things too personally, not like I'm this shivering little daisy. But I did cry all the time. God, I was the waitress who cried all the time. By "all the time" I mean twice, but twice may as well be all the time considering it was only two weeks. Also I didn't get into the fancy writing conference I wanted to go to, I didn't get any good writing news, and I found some cockroaches in my apartment. And I had to have one of my ears irrigated. Thrilling shit, I know. Summer can be tricky.
Then again, I am totally glossing over the fact that I've gotten over one of my greatest challenges, and I'm talking life-long here. The bike thing is weird because I feel like everybody makes too big a deal of it or not enough of a deal at all. Some people are all, "Oh, you learned how to ride a bike? You didn't know before?" No, dumbass, that's why I had to learn. That's the whole point of learning, to do something you couldn't do before. Which, let's be honest, is just my fancy sensitivity again.
But tonight, riding on the dark streets of my neighborhood, I totally get every bike-obsessed thing I've ever read in zines. I understand every dreamy-eyed 20-something blissing out in the summertime. I remember so many times putting "learn how to ride a fucking bike" on my summer to-do list. And now it's here, and it's just the facts.
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