Keeping a diary has never been my thing.
The whole, “Dear Diary, today I saw Jimmy. He’s really cute. I think he’s going to ask me out soon,” thing has never been my style.
Then again, Jimmy was never going to ask me out. He wore a pocket chain, had frosted tips, and he listened to Simple Plan. He was a 7th grade God.
I mean, now he has a criminal record, and I caught him stealing my $400 camera off of the counter at the convenient store, while I was buying sunscreen, but that’s entirely beside the point.
Keeping a journal always sounded a little cooler than a diary. It didn’t seem to require any type of introduction. It seemed deeper, more personal, and more intimate. I can admit to keeping a journal. Actually, I can admit to keeping at least 10 journals over the last 24 years of my life. I can’t honestly say I finished any of them, but isn’t that the point of journals? It isn’t about a start, or a finish. It’s about expressing your feelings, kneading through them in the privacy of your very own binding. Taking them apart and reassembling them like a Lego masterpiece.
That is slightly inaccurate. I never followed the directions on the Lego kits, which is probably why my parents never bought them for me. Now before you go all, “Oh no you DIDN’T, Legos were the bomb dot com” on me, I’m not bashing Lego. I’m just saying that instead of building the Lego Forest Police Station, (is that actually a THING?) I preferred to build…a really tall tower.
My favorite part of this, is that on the Barnes & Noble website, the description reads: Spot the robbers hiding the stolen goods behind a rock!
…Dumb criminals, everyone knows the big tree is where you’re supposed to hide your stolen goods!
What I’m trying to say, is that in a journal, I could take apart and reassemble my feelings, until I had them just right. Diary sounded too pretty, too polished, too clean. I needed something messy. I needed room to scratch things out, and the freedom to shamelessly tear pages away.
A journal sounds forgiving.
Like…Hey I don’t think you’re a bad person for writing this. Get it all out. We’re still tight.
Thanks, Journal. High five.
Blogging has always been in its own category, a category I was sure I wanted no part of. Blog? What is that? Is that even a word? It sounds like a disease.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry I have to be the one to inform you, but you’ve caught a bad case of the blog…”
Am I right? Of course I am. As far as I understood, the blogosphere was a place for people who had similar interests to connect. For example, sometimes blogging connections are made like so:
-Oh, you like to cook? I like to cook! Let’s be buds.
-Oh, you like to crochet? So do I! Will you accept this crocheted hat as a symbol of my bloggitude?
-You’re married, had the most amazing wedding of all time, and have three BEATIFUL children? Me too! My kids are cuter. Let’s be frenemies.
What the heck was I supposed to do in the blogging world? Where would I fit in?
-Oh, the squirrels are trying to steal YOUR crock pot? Me too!
-Oh, you creepily people watch at coffee shops and then write about them against their will? SO DO I!
-Wait, HOLD UP! You’re still trying to figure out how to Dougie? I heard all you need is a beat that’s super bumpin. Besties!
Not having a niche deterred me from blogging for a very long time. I briefly recovered from this fear while I was living abroad. I settled for keeping a travel blog…aaaand then I came home. Game over.
While sitting in a local coffee shop (coffee addicts, UNITE), one January day two months ago, I dove into the deep end and decided I was going to give this whole blogging thing another try. I have to say, so far it’s been a pretty wild ride. Lately, a lot of people have been asking me what kind of blog I write.
Usually I stick with “humorous self deprecation.” Somehow describing it as: “…Something about squirrels breaking into my apartment, being terrible at make up, and overcoming my importunate phobia of all things sharky” doesn’t sound very official.
I still don’t have a clique that I fit into. It’s like having lunch tray anxiety in the middle of a busy college cafeteria. You know your friends are somewhere, there is a whole sea of friendly faces, but you’re just not sure where you’re friends are, or where you are supposed to sit. Worst case scenario, just stand by the waffle machine.
You can’t go wrong with the waffle machine.
Keeping a diary has never been my thing.