i forget how to blog so i'll try THIS
How do you blog? What do you say? What's good for talking about? I motherfucking FORGET.
Look, I know that all of you, all none of you, must be assuming that I am dead. The monkey, she blogged of yore, but now she's in her watery grave. I'm not in my watery grave. I just FORGET.
Okay, I just read a how-to book. Here's what I'm going to do now.
This is a personal timeline. It's, you know, a subject for a post. I remember back in the blurry past of my bloggy youth that I liked to do things more organically. But this is an idea from out of a book. I feel like this is like we're a couple, you the reader and me the blog, and we went to couple's counseling, and the counselor gave us some tips to spice up our failing sex life.
So, here's this thing from out of this book. Bowm-chicka-bowm. Oh, I've still got it, honey. I've got it somewhere.
(by threes - my own touch! See? Oh, I've still got it.)
Age 3: I'm in Finland in a pink chiffon dress, eluding my twin uncles who wear man cologne and leather jackets and so I don't trust them. Uncle Esko tells my mom I'm a slippery character. Takes one to know one, bub!
Age 6: I'm in Washington, D.C. in an Indian restaurant eating an orange dessert that is too sweet. I didn't heretofore know anything could be too sweet, that sweetness could be a problem. This haunts me in some philosophical way.
Age 9: We just moved to Seattle, and I am not impressed with the West coast pronunciation of such words as "coffee", "sorry", "friend" and "pen." The year of threats and fistfights.
Age 12: I have received a pink Swiss-dotted ruffly dress for my birthday, which causes me to write in French in my diary about it. Mon anniversaire est Jouillet le Trois. I am insufferable.
Age 15: I powder my face white with baby powder and draw black crosses coming out of my eyes to go dancing at Skoochies. I have the obligatory white shirt buttoned up to the top button and brooch at the neck. The Art of Noise plays.
Age 18: The thing is, I was too embarrassed to tell him I was a virgin, so I just pretended I couldn't figure out what the problem was, either. Hmmm! What a mystery!
Age 21: We celebrate my twenty-first birthday at the Vogue, where the Smashing Pumpkins and Afghan Whigs and Tad play. But who are they? I don't care. I am drinking. I don't watch any of it. I don't even drink a lot. I just drink a little, but attentively. It's not even like I just started drinking. Oh, who am I kidding? It was just a boring little night.
Age 24: I meet the man who will be my first husband.
Age 27: My first marriage has just drawn to a close.
Age 30: Fresh out of jail and looking to reform my ways!
Age 33: Clown class.
Age 36: Finn, inside and then out.
Age 39: Mind you, I'm just hypothesizing...but I win some LARGE PRIZE. I bet this will come true, but instead of the Booker prize* it will be like a giant stuffed alligator from the Puyallup Fair.
*I actually think somebody else should win the Booker prize.
Look, it may have come out of a book, but at least we did it. I'm going to do it again. I don't even care if it's out of a book. I'm trying to save our marriage**.
**Don't read anything into this about my actual marriage. THAT marriage is HOT.