If you say you will write one hundred posts in one hundred days, that’s a Thing. It’s a goal. A Goal.
If you then proceed to drag out the hundred posts over more than a hundred days, it’s just a blog.
So, this is just a blog, like any other. Sorry. It’s not special. There is no gimmick or knack. I am still posting! Until I get to 100! But, well, so what.
It’s not even special to me. Really. Man it’s like the second time you try heroin*. Never as good as the first.
* I have never tried heroin.
I loved my first blog. I didn’t love the name of it necessarily, as years went on and it made less and less sense to anyone, but I loved that it was this great cave in the Internet where I could sit and pull my knees to my chest and just feel warm and safe. I loved that I started it as a bored unemployed person with an itchy chin, no dependants, and a lot of free time, and ended it in a suburb, with two small kids and a lot more grey hair.
There’s something special about something that sees you through so much transition and doesn’t so much as blink. Not that it could blink, being a blog.
MY BLOG WAS MY BEST FRIEND AND YOU CAN’T REPLACE THAT, MAN.
No, that’s not quite it.
I don’t know what this space is all about yet. But then, making friends takes a long time. Once you know someone and love them, you look back at all that friend-making and polite dancing about you did and laugh because now you’ve talked about taboo thing and have gone to another level of friendship and can’t even remember when you thought she maybe looked boring or snooty.
This place will go to that place someday. And we’ll forget all this awkwardness ever happened.
Here’s me in eighth grade. Awkward proof that all awkwardness is forgettable.
Dang, eighth grade you looks really familiar. You look like this girl (woman) I knew in high school who is a biologist or something like that now (also with dependants and probably more gray hair, too).
But anyway, here’s what I wanted to say about the 100 days: it actually matters more (she tells herself) to keep going at the thing that you should have finished awhile ago, but didn’t. You don’t have the momentum of the timeline to keep you going, which means the motivator is pretty much just you and your desire to finish the thing you started. Crossing the marathon line in the dark still counts.
For a true butterfly story I should put up grade 7 and 9 as well. 7 was pre-braces, 8 was braces (hence the closed mouth smile) and 9 was post braces but also post Sun-In experiments. It would be hilarious if I was a biologist.
And yes, crossing the marathon line in the dark. Thanks and back atcha.
Eighth grade is awkward for everyone. We all had a perm.
Right? Even Saint Aardvark had a perm I think. Maybe not grade 8 but somewhere around there.
Why were we SO much more awkward than the hipsters hotties masquerading as grade 8-ers now? They even make PJs look cool! WTF? So, so relieved that you’ve never tried heroin.*
*me neither!
Love you posts. Keep ’em comin!
Digital cameras. Delete the awkward and move on!
I loved your old blog too. It was remarkable. At the time when I was writing the weirdest blog I could imagine, I found one even weirder. Somehow I missed this one? Time to read.
Thanks Mr Node. FTR I think your blog was always weirder.