It's true. Before Michelle scooped me up and squeezed the occasional entry from me (a process that sounds much sexier than it actually is) I had been blogging for about 8 years. I started some time in middle school and you can already imagine the quality of the writing and the pearls of wisdom I was able to muster at that age.
Regardless, every single entry was saturated with honest emotions. I made and lost a few friends with the entries but I was cocky and angry enough to believe - nay - to know that what I was saying was right and that anyone who decided to get in a fight with me was just an idiot. It was an unhealthy attitude, but it was the most productive writing I've ever produced. Though in the real world at that age I was lying rather often (rather big lies, too). I was honest and without regret on the internet. Unfortunately, my early entries have been lost to the ages as various sites I used have disappeared or I would regail you with bits of 8th grade wisdom such as "everyone except me is stupid" and "you are stupid but I am not."
I was versatile and, as you can tell, have since discovered many more ways to express the same ideas.
The reason I mention this, beyond Michelle providing an easy prompt, is that it's stranger being honest and opinionated like that when not only are people you don't know reading your words but it's not even your page. I am a guest, a boorish intruder. I am that guy at the end of the night who doesn't pick up on subtle hints like "Well I have to get up early tomorrow," and "Gee, it's late."
I could tell you that this weekend I was taking care of my friend Blake's dog and another dog from one of his family friends, but you have no idea who Blake is or why you should be excited to read about how fat Chloe has gotten. If I told you that the extra dog is going blind and headbutted my testicles several times quite by accident (though the last time had a hint of malice in the motion) you might laugh at the low humor, but you have essentially no connection to me, the dogs or the situation. I could explain it all, of course, but the sheer space necessary to really get into the story of my weekend with strange dogs would be, well, a blog unto itself. Think of how much time you've spent with Bowie on this blog.
So I have to write things that are honest and open enough that you can connect to them even if it's only akin to the manner in which you might nod slightly whilst passing a distant acquaintance on the street.
Or, seeing as how I now have my own tab and extremely flattering picture here on Gooseberried, I should quit dicking around and introduce myself proper so I can join Michelle in writing fearlessly and providing you - yes you, dear reader - with the type of blogging you can proudly display on your list of favorites. Or at very least, give you some tidbits of information about the goings on in my life and perhaps we can all live vicariously through one another.
Regardless, every single entry was saturated with honest emotions. I made and lost a few friends with the entries but I was cocky and angry enough to believe - nay - to know that what I was saying was right and that anyone who decided to get in a fight with me was just an idiot. It was an unhealthy attitude, but it was the most productive writing I've ever produced. Though in the real world at that age I was lying rather often (rather big lies, too). I was honest and without regret on the internet. Unfortunately, my early entries have been lost to the ages as various sites I used have disappeared or I would regail you with bits of 8th grade wisdom such as "everyone except me is stupid" and "you are stupid but I am not."
I was versatile and, as you can tell, have since discovered many more ways to express the same ideas.
The reason I mention this, beyond Michelle providing an easy prompt, is that it's stranger being honest and opinionated like that when not only are people you don't know reading your words but it's not even your page. I am a guest, a boorish intruder. I am that guy at the end of the night who doesn't pick up on subtle hints like "Well I have to get up early tomorrow," and "Gee, it's late."
I could tell you that this weekend I was taking care of my friend Blake's dog and another dog from one of his family friends, but you have no idea who Blake is or why you should be excited to read about how fat Chloe has gotten. If I told you that the extra dog is going blind and headbutted my testicles several times quite by accident (though the last time had a hint of malice in the motion) you might laugh at the low humor, but you have essentially no connection to me, the dogs or the situation. I could explain it all, of course, but the sheer space necessary to really get into the story of my weekend with strange dogs would be, well, a blog unto itself. Think of how much time you've spent with Bowie on this blog.
So I have to write things that are honest and open enough that you can connect to them even if it's only akin to the manner in which you might nod slightly whilst passing a distant acquaintance on the street.
Or, seeing as how I now have my own tab and extremely flattering picture here on Gooseberried, I should quit dicking around and introduce myself proper so I can join Michelle in writing fearlessly and providing you - yes you, dear reader - with the type of blogging you can proudly display on your list of favorites. Or at very least, give you some tidbits of information about the goings on in my life and perhaps we can all live vicariously through one another.
