It’s late and I’m tired. This isn’t an uncommon set of conditions for me to start a blog under.
On top of feeling the need to create unnecessary places on the Internet to type stuff up and the nearly insatiable craving to tweak the hundreds of wholly unimportant background layout characteristics of those unnecessary places on the Internet to type stuff up, it being late and me being tired makes me very nostalgic. Nostalgic to the point of making me want to pop my eyes out with a Spork® and feed them to trick-or-treaters, maybe after a caramel glazing.*
I guess I might be using the word “nostalgic” a bit loosely.
Anyhow, my first “blogging experience” – which, I know, makes it sound like I got my balls shaved in the boy’s locker room against my will but soon after decided to form a tree house club centered around the practice – came during an emotionally stressful period a few years back of rapid-fire break ups and make ups with my ex-girlfriend.** We would fight on a daily basis. Valencia generally made her points with harsh words and circular logic. I usually opted for Road Rash III®-inspired motorcycle battles, but, at the end of the day, none of our problems were ever really solved. I mean, looking back on it now, the Road Rash® series and its emphasis on cattle prod-combat rather blew, so I guess I shouldn’t have been entirely surprised.
To get my mind off my troubles, I took up blogging. (As well as interpretive air guitar.) Late at night, I’d sneak out of bed after Valencia had fallen asleep (or, more often than not, passed out from the Nyquil® I’d dump in her Shasta®) and creep downstairs to the living room computer. After masturbating vigorously to Reba McEntire-themed porn, I’d tap my problems away on the keyboard for the whole of the Internet to see. Sometimes I’d vent: About Valencia, about our failing relationship, about the supreme flatness of my ass. Other times, though, I’d simply revel in the uncomplicated beauty of written text and the predominantly uncensored nature of the Internet in America. Poop and things that look similar to poop were regular topics. I’d preach the inherent dangers of allowing sentient robots to have independent power sources (it’s safest to keep them chained up and plugged into wall sockets, of course) and the magic of a warm soymilk fight on a cold Sunday morning. Anything went: The Internet was my smutty canvas. And you know what? It worked. Every day, even in the wake of a nose-dive relationship, writing helped me sustain my self-confidence and find a little something in a big ugly world to laugh about. In a fairly realistic way, writing saved my life. If not for my blogging, I don’t know where I’d be.
Oh, yeah: Blogging and that gun I bought. That helped my confidence a good bit, as well. Guns are super useful.
*If you’re wondering how I’d get away with that, I’ve already gone ahead and thought way too deeply about the matter. It’s likely I’d end up telling the children’s parents that the candy was a homemade recipe I developed from a breed of shrunken Lithuanian apples discovered on one of my bi-monthly excursions to Northern Europe. I find that people tend to ignore what you’re feeding them once you mention anything about Northern Europe.
**For the sake of ease of readership, let’s supplant “ex-girlfriend” here with a fictitious name that everyone can better identify with from here on out… say, “Valencia.” Which is interesting as the first name that should come up in my mind: I must have produce on the brain after that “Lithuanian apples” comment. But, then again, I also fucking hate oranges.
