First post. You always remember your first, except for this one, which is about to be buried under a landslide of retrospective posts.
Hooray! My blog is born!
I would love to introduce it like this, so fresh and so clean with just one cheery greeting, ready to be slowly developed day after day. Unfortunately, my “inspiration” comes in short ugly globular bursts, so I’m going to load up ALL of my old writing here before I get on a regular schedule.
A schedule of what, you may ask? YOU meaning no one except maybe the guy next to me at Starbucks, who is labeling mitochondria or whatever and is living a far more productive life than I. His drink is also more professional than mine. But who even gets like, black coffee at Starbucks anymore? Is that some kind of statement? I see through you, Mitochondria Guy.
I have written much in my short life. Sometimes I’ve been prolific and sometimes I go through long dry periods of trying to do something else. But, simply put, I love words and I have thoughts and I miss having a regular home in which to lovingly store them. Mostly I write about television, film, music, celebrities, and the complicated web we weave. Also complicated weaves.
Just to go balls-out and bare all, I’m also at a delicate psychological precipice. I must write now or forever lose the spark. Perhaps (probably) more on that soon. I’m a 20-something with a dwindling bank account and a painful hunger for MORE BEAUTY LOVE EVERYTHING, and in transcribing all I have ever pondered I hope to make inroads to my destiny.
Vague enough? You ain’t seen nothing yet. You actually haven’t. I’m not even sure what I’m going to throw on here yet. Mitochondria Guy is excited. Please stop looking at my screen. It’s not my fault that neither of us got here early enough to snag a private table.
Okay, time to write. Time to dream. Time to honor POP and everything it means to you and me. Like Tim Robbins in Shawshank, I hope to crawl through a river of shit and come out clean on the other side. Hold your noses.