I've always toyed with the idea of writing a blog. Toyed with it in the way that my cat would torture a mouse- batting it around and around and never fully letting it die. I've often thought about spilling my guts to a handful of semi-interested Facebook friends who will surely only read this out of some morbid curiosity to see if I'm aware of exactly how much weight I've gained. I've thought about reaching out to those few electronic voyeurs who are aching to discover what sad, sad twists my life as an over-caffeinated, completely unsuccessful actor have taken since I spent my academic scholarships on Theatre instead of engineering, or business or... literally anything else.
But, I seem to have stopped myself from even starting on more than one occasion.Why? Well, my crippling self doubt assures me that, quiet honestly- no one gives half a fuck what I have to say. And (horror!), what if, on the off-chance, my ramblings touched someone into giving any small amount of fucks and I had nothing mildly interesting to throw at them? What if my blog turned into something resembling a progressively maudlin, supersized Tweet? This, at those times, seemed too horrible fate for my gestating blog fetus.
And besides, blogs are solely for the lonely, the attention starved middle children, the people who have something important to say, or those who MacGyver cupcakes out of Nutella, toothpaste and a really old snowman mug. (I swear to God, if there is a recipe even resembling that somewhere on the internet, send it to me immediately. Mama's hungry.) At the very least, someone who wrote a blog must be a whimsical sadomasochist with a giant boner for Julia Child.
I don't really fit into any of these categories. I am often surrounded by people, am the youngest of three kids, and the most J. Child ever gives me is a partial.
So, you may ask, what changed? Am I taking the trip of a lifetime and need a platform to post my blurry, amateur photos of Trafalgar Square? Did I finally get tired of only writing erotic Harry Potter Fanfiction? Am I drunk? Yes. All of these things.
JK, jk, kidlets. I'm not that interesting and the most I have going on right now is a slight buzz. I'm just trying to write. I've been letting a stageplay percolate in my head for years. YEARS. Literally, like two years. I guess that's how long it took me to discover that the script won't write itself. That whore.
Also, I read somewhere (probably on someone's inspirational Pinboard) that writers should write every day. So this is my writing side-project's side project. Something to putz away on when I need to get my creative juices flowing (ew), but can't bear to spend even another second with any of my characters. And, now that I've decided to pretend that I am a writer, not just an underpaid soap salesperson- I guess I should do those thangs.
So, welcome to my blog. It's about me. Being 22 and awful in general. See, the title is supposed to be transparent. No hidden meanings. I didn't want to start out what I hope will be a deep and meaningful relationship on a foundation of lies. Within my blog you may expect to find the following: links to pictures of cats, writing samples, retail related rants and other shit that matters to only me, but that I will force on you because you're the idiot who clicked this link and you're in my world now, bitch.
Please love me.
-Megan
But, I seem to have stopped myself from even starting on more than one occasion.Why? Well, my crippling self doubt assures me that, quiet honestly- no one gives half a fuck what I have to say. And (horror!), what if, on the off-chance, my ramblings touched someone into giving any small amount of fucks and I had nothing mildly interesting to throw at them? What if my blog turned into something resembling a progressively maudlin, supersized Tweet? This, at those times, seemed too horrible fate for my gestating blog fetus.
And besides, blogs are solely for the lonely, the attention starved middle children, the people who have something important to say, or those who MacGyver cupcakes out of Nutella, toothpaste and a really old snowman mug. (I swear to God, if there is a recipe even resembling that somewhere on the internet, send it to me immediately. Mama's hungry.) At the very least, someone who wrote a blog must be a whimsical sadomasochist with a giant boner for Julia Child.
I don't really fit into any of these categories. I am often surrounded by people, am the youngest of three kids, and the most J. Child ever gives me is a partial.
So, you may ask, what changed? Am I taking the trip of a lifetime and need a platform to post my blurry, amateur photos of Trafalgar Square? Did I finally get tired of only writing erotic Harry Potter Fanfiction? Am I drunk? Yes. All of these things.
JK, jk, kidlets. I'm not that interesting and the most I have going on right now is a slight buzz. I'm just trying to write. I've been letting a stageplay percolate in my head for years. YEARS. Literally, like two years. I guess that's how long it took me to discover that the script won't write itself. That whore.
Also, I read somewhere (probably on someone's inspirational Pinboard) that writers should write every day. So this is my writing side-project's side project. Something to putz away on when I need to get my creative juices flowing (ew), but can't bear to spend even another second with any of my characters. And, now that I've decided to pretend that I am a writer, not just an underpaid soap salesperson- I guess I should do those thangs.
So, welcome to my blog. It's about me. Being 22 and awful in general. See, the title is supposed to be transparent. No hidden meanings. I didn't want to start out what I hope will be a deep and meaningful relationship on a foundation of lies. Within my blog you may expect to find the following: links to pictures of cats, writing samples, retail related rants and other shit that matters to only me, but that I will force on you because you're the idiot who clicked this link and you're in my world now, bitch.
Please love me.
-Megan
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