Skip to main content

Bloggy Blog #1

...with you, bloggy blog, is just getting too overwhelming for me. I can't take the trouble you've been putting me through for years and years. Make one, delete it. Make another, delete it. Over and over again I beat a dead horse in trying to keep this love alive. Over and over again, you disappoint me.

We go all the way back to Myspace, that bastion of glitter pics and ever-critical top eight friend lists. I tried to blog there. It's such a silly word. Bluh-ogg. Kind of like blah. Something that comes from the gut. Vomit. Puke. BLARGH. It all comes out in the wash. Useless words on computer screens and now cell phone screens to placate all our free time. You sit there and antagonize me so. Why? Why would you do that to me? I thought I could trust you. Throw my thoughts at you. Dreams, visions, complaints. You were my easel. My canvas.

What went wrong?

Let's start from the beginning. Not Myspace, but back much further than that. Let's go back to the dawn of the internet - according to my usage of it, anyway. 1993. Jesus tapdancing Christ, what a long time ago! I was stuck with something similar to this beauty -


Sure, it wasn't too internetty, but it made me feel all sorts of powerful. Lots of book reports run off dot matrix printers and stored on 8" floppy disks. Good times. Buried deep in a landfill somewhere right now sits one of those floppies that I carelessly abandoned once the 3.5" versions came into vogue. On this disk sat a few choice words that I can't recite verbatim, but definitely never graced any school book report. It was the start of something big. Big, I tell ya. Probably just me complaining about my family, but it was the blog before blogs. And it was awesome. I think. 

Shortly thereafter, I started capturing my thoughts of rage and lust via stupid journals. They were stupid because they were filled with stupid. Love, hate, more hate, extreme hate for lost loves, hating love, hating thoughts of hating love - just a pathetic smorgasbord of pure teenage muck. My first paper journal I decided to just casually discard by tossing it into a lake at the local park. I had grown flustered by recent events in my life, and figured everything up to that point was just a waste trying to lament over such - so, into the lake my memories went. For a while I secretly hoped someone would come across those drenched pages of angst. 

Future journals were not carelessly tossed aside into the shallow depths of filthy green water. They were maintained in the dry confines of bookshelves, and on some occasions, backpacks. Or just on the floor, in those living spaces where I just didn't give a crap. These journals were similar to the angry teenage journal, only less about relationships and more about my family. I know, writing about those you hang around with the most - very shocking concept. But that's precisely what they were - pages and pages of nonsense and complaining about people who cared about me. Or did care, up until a certain point. 

In the early 2000's, I was lured to the world of online writing. I took to it almost feverishly, posting on just about any topic that came to mind. I maintained this blog/journal thing for over a good half a decade, mostly to keep in touch with former students who I lived with at a boarding school, most of whom were frequent connoisseurs of this specific site. Couple this with the Myspace craze, and by the mid 2000's I was blogging things like a madman. 

But then one day, I stopped.

 I stopped and deleted a profile here, a profile there. Made others. Deleted those as well, made some more. Kept writing. Kept deleting. Over and over again. I went through profile after profile and blog after blog and kept absolutely nothing. I had no rational explanation for any of this. Every blog or profile got recycled into something I thought was going to be greater than the prior, and it never really became that. 

And that brings me here. Again. 

Again I am here trying to recreate something that may very well get taken down. And I will be okay with that. Will you, internet? Will you be okay with that? Probably. People have done worse things on here. But why do I keep doing it? What am I afraid of? It's just a blog. In the world. One in the world of millions. A stupid bloggy blogface.


Popular posts from this blog

Bloggy Blog #84

The first time I visited, I had to park across the street in the lot of an abandoned gas station. The lot itself went up a slight hill, and the station's sign would occasionally spin some slow turns whenever the town spirits wanted to have some fun.  She lived in a questionably constructed building on the second floor of this sleepy Revolutionary War town, adjacent to a craft store that was hardly ever open. In the basement sat a four-lane bowling alley and a small bar. It was by appointment only, which really meant the building's landlord had to be there to serve drinks and keep an eye on the action. I didn't get a chance to bowl down there, but seeing the construction of the building, this was probably a good thing. When she moved out of her place, part of the process involved placing a three-foot wide plank over the bowling alley basement stairs, in order to move big furniture out. Needless to say she left the heavy lifting to the moving experts.  The new plac...
Read more

Bloggy Blog #97

   A few weeks ago, the last of my father's counter top appliances went kaput. It was an unnecessarily large microwave. I used it from time to time to heat up frozen dinners for him, or to reheat my own leftovers. He used it a whole lot more than I ever did, specifically to reheat coffee. He'll brew his little hotel-sized pot of coffee every morning around six-thirty, pour it into a cup, place a lid on it, then let it sit on the kitchen table. About two hours later I'm up and moving around, and that cup is still on the table. He'll reheat it before 9:30, then leave it covered on the table. Sometimes he will reheat it two or three times, thirty seconds to a minute each, in the span of an hour. I don't know what the proper temperature he desires for his coffee, but most of the time, whatever it is, is not it. So he puts a lid on it and just...walks away.  My parents moved into this apartment fifteen years ago. I was living three time zones away at the time, unable to ...
Read more

Bloggy Blog #92

 In the February tundra that is upstate New York, in a hospital room some eleven-hundred plus miles away from me, a doctor named Oleg signed off on my mother’s death certificate. She had been in and out of the hospital for a couple months, after falling repeatedly at the apartment. My father had to call 911 a few times to help get her to the emergency room, and after the third or fourth time falling they just kept her there. At some point, she broke her hip. Then she may (or may not have?) caught COVID in the hospital. She wasn’t vaccinated. There was talk of sending her back home (potentially with COVID) which sounded rather suspect coming from medical professionals. Things at home seemed rather unclear about hospice care, so sending her back with a serious pandemic diagnosis didn’t seem like a great idea. My father is vaccinated, but would still have needed to come into close contact with her constantly if she went home. That didn’t end up needing to happen.  I flew to Alban...
Read more