It has become clear to me in the first two weeks of trying this that I have blogging on the brain. The double B was inevitable, I suppose. I start seeing all those lovely WordPress stats telling me you’re reading, and I wish to keep encouraging you to come back. I’m needy like that. The result, an almost constant mental stream. Did they laugh? Was it a good post? What if I run out of ideas? Isn’t this whole exercise a bit narcissistic? It wouldn’t be if they’d start leaving comments. Maybe you’re not comment-worthy, did you ever think of that? Stop yelling at me. When am I going to get my other writing done? The next book isn’t going to write itself for heaven’s sake. Shit, I would kill for a piece of chocolate right now. Why is it so hot in here? What if that spider in the window is poisonous? Well, most of those thoughts were inevitable.
If you doubt the veracity of this claim just listen to my nightmare from last week. I am uploading a 1930’s video of harem dancers onto the blog. (Why harem dancers, why the ’30’s, I really couldn’t tell you.) Suddenly it appears I have accidentally added footage from a porn site and somehow a bunch of randy comments from that site are now appearing on my blog. The more I try to fix it the bigger the video screen gets.
Of course the last time I checked, leaving comments on a porn site was not exactly standard. What are the odds that viewers of porn will take the time out of their busy day to say, “You know that last set of nipples were not as symmetrical as I might have liked, if you could do something about that on the next go round I’d appreciate it.” You see what I mean? Doesn’t seem logical, really. But somehow my anxiety about your lack of comments and my limited pornographic repertoire combined into a maelstrom of computer related tragedy.
But wait, the nightmare gets even weirder. Suddenly I’m so exhausted I lie my head down on the keyboard and nap. When I open my eyes again a burner from my oven sits directly next to the computer. The pilot light comes on of its own accord and two bottles of vitamins begin to burn in a fire which is now dangerously close to my spent-every-last-dime-I-have-to-buy-it Macbook. I decide to blow out the fire. Yes, as in the third of the three-little-pig trinity, huffing and puffing and blowing my supplement fire down. It doesn’t work.
In the logic that is one’s subconscious, I carry the fire into the kitchen where a friend suddenly appears out of thin air to discuss blogging with me. I am however rather distracted what with the fire and all, so I don’t really feel I have sufficient attention span to properly discuss the subject.
I wish I could tell you at this point Brad Pitt and David Beckham showed up. One gave me a back rub, while the other massaged my feet. They assured me the blog was going well, that I didn’t need to obsess over my writing career, told me the universe would provide and, oh-by-the-way was I aware I’d recently won the lottery; but that only happens in the movies. Or in the subconscious of a much healthier, more well-adjusted person.
Feel free to leave a comment about my impending insanity.