So I was trying to think of what I should write in my first blog post, and after a full weekend of thought (and a fair amount of booze) I came up with: nothing. Then I thought, hey, maybe I could write about blogging itself! People love reading about that, don’t they?
No. They don’t.
See, this is why the internet is littered with failed past blogs of mine. Because blogging is tough. It’s tough coming up with new content every damn day. I equate it with sticking sharpened sticks underneath my fingernails while a monkey watches, laughing. I think I started four – no, wait, five – blogs in the past five years, and while a couple of them were decent ideas, they crashed and burned in a most spectacular fashion because it turns out I’d rather do anything – anything – than deal with the crushing dread of having to come up with another self- or toothpaste-stain-centered blog post.
I’m not complaining, mind you. For the first time ever, I have an actual reason to blog, a possible readership that might actually care about what I have to say. The fact that I will undoubtedly disappoint them with rants about my cats’ incessant hairballs and Lay’s unfortunate choice in potato chip bag fonts matters not.
Because the people need to know. The people need to be made aware of the neon orange, mousse-textured mold that creeps through my front door on a yearly basis and is, I’m sure, the subject of some terrifying National Geographic documentary titled Spores That Kill. That’s what blogs are for. And thus, I present to you My Blog – which, unlike the diary that I kept when I was seven, will not be named Helen.
Yeah, I don’t know either.