I've made it a solid three weeks of not smoking. If you want to count two slip-ups--flamenco night and Father John Misty-- it's been about a month since I committed to a lifestyle of relative health. And I feel like it's pretty safe to say The Worst Is Over. So then I've been asking myself what to do about this potentially fancy Blog Thing I have designed.
My sweet princess, whose bangs I will never have. WHO WILL NEVER HAVE MY FRESH YOUNG LUNGS.
The self-loathing side of me (75-82%) finds the concept of keeping a personal blog unnecessary, self-aggrandizing, UNCOOL. Over the past few years, many secretive friends and my once-threateningly-enigmatic boyfriend have taught me the virtues of revealing little, of being the question-asker instead of the question-asked. There are still people that I meet that I'll feel a startling electric kin-feeling with and then I'll tell them about my ideal haircut and exactly how much TV I watch. But otherwise, I enjoy imagining myself as an elusive cat figure, refusing to read any English Department emails and lounging for days in my hermit cave. This is NOT accurate but makes the thought of doing a blog sort-of counterintuitive to my deep longing for... depth.
BUT THEN WHY AM I WRITING ABOUT WRITING ABOUT A BLOG. Ugh, the self-indulgence. But then I do want to be a food writer. And I do eat, so so much, and feel obligated to impress upon the world what a fucking awesome cook I have become. And there are times in the day, like when I listen to rap music and think of my sister, or when Sally has a bad vet visit and drags her ass all over every fabric surface of my home, that I just want to throw all this shit to the proverbial Wind of the Great Wide Web and see what sticks.
The fact is, I do like to write and I do want to say things. I will probably change the name because it is stupid.
