Why do I have a blog and why am I forcing you to read it?
I’ll answer those in reverse order:
B) I’m not. I really don’t know how you got here. And,
A) because I’m happier when I write.
This isn’t the first time I’ve attempted to manage a blog. Hell, this isn’t even the first time I’ve move ancient blog posts from a previous service into a newer, shiner, shell in hopes of motivating myself to keep writing (see Let’s get up to speed, shall we?)
As I said then, I'm not spinning up another blog because I have anything wise or poignant to share. And it’s definitely not because I think I’m a good writer. As someone who loathes typos and struggles to get through even free ebooks on account of them, the thought of you reading this and catching all the times my brain and fingers fought and misfired—it's dizzying. And no, unfortunately, I’m not even doing this for you, oh, beautiful people who encourage me to write. Beautiful people I can only assume my parents pay monthly installments for your kindness.
“Why do I have a blog and why am I forcing you to read it?
”
The truth is, I feel better when I write. I’m happier when I write. Or, at the very least, I'm less aware of how miserable and wretched everything is. Believe me, the last 11 months of history have pushed me to crippling lengths when it comes to perfecting the art of distraction and self-medication as survival. This site is not the worst form my desperation could have taken, trust me.
Here's what you can expect: nothing. I'm going to write. And then I’m going to not write. Sometimes, when I write, all of the words will be absurd. Sometimes, all of the words will be serious (this is harder for me). Mostly, however, all of the words will be incoherent and the entries riddled with all sorts of grammatical crimes (and some regular crimes, too). Sometimes the words will be personal. Sometimes, I won’t let you comment on my words with your words because I don’t care about your words. And because my words, in those moments, exist as a muted shout into the void and aren't worthy of your thoughtful commentary.
“I can’t promise that my words will be filtered or wholesome. ”
I can’t promise that my words will be filtered or wholesome. Let’s face it, I’ve spent my whole life with one singular goal of not shaming my pastoral parents. It's exhausting (see Sing for Absolution—that's not a real post but it should be. It will be soon enough). But I'm a decent enough person. Really. I'm just one who sometimes swears when she’s angry. Or happy. Or describing a sunset. Or a baby.
Oh, and sometimes the words will probably be insensitive to someone, somewhere. In those cases, they will almost always be sarcastic, but really, who can say?
In summary: the subtitle of the site is for real. I’m not profound. I'm not deep. I'm struggling. And if you have lofty expectations of me or what I write here, you will be disappointed. That's pretty much the only guarantee I can make.
But if you’re here on accident (or because you're bored or bemused) or because every now and then, you want to read and judge what some random girl in Minneapolis, Minnesota thinks about nothing at all, well in that case, “Welcome.”