Stephanie got her 500,000th hit yesterday! Hooray!
This is a little bittersweet. Sweet because half a motherfucking million, bitter because we both have to start over on WordPress. Technically we can mentally add however many hits we have to the new totals, but we both know that’s sort of cheating. I would love to be able to count all the views from my old blog here, but a) again, cheating, and b) my blog was on MySpace, which everyone on the planet had at one point. I’m sure that even my father could have found me on MySpace if I gave him a single afternoon and unlimited coffee.
As important as they are to my self-esteem, views are not the only reason I write. My very first blog entry was posted sometime in the winter of 2005. It was titled “I Need New Friends” and prompted by a particularly dismal New Year’s Eve. I titled it that way because I was sure none of my existing friends would read it. Virtually no one I knew was on MySpace yet; I’d only joined because my boyfriend at the time was in a band and that was the only place online I could hear their music. Within a week, my entire circle of friends had joined MySpace and were highly pissed off. My point is that I started writing even when no one was reading, which brings me to the assignment given to me by Aunt Becky:
Why do I write?
The easiest answer is because writing is free therapy. It’s not very professional or extensive, and I’m sure if I were crazier I would need an actual psychoanalyst to deal with the wreckage of my brain. But right now I’m only mildly crazy, and writing is the easiest, cheapest way for me to mitigate the battle between my Ego and my Id. I’ve talked myself off the ledge multiple times because I was able to write about it, and even if I never ended up publishing the internal dialogue, I was able to better understand the situation. Writing something out has allowed me to make decisions like whether or not I should keep friends, boyfriends, and jobs. It’s mental organization, and I think if you could see just how disorganized my thoughts can be, you’d be really super glad I’m writing about them here rather than sorting through them with a semi-automatic weapon. (It’s also a lot better than me sitting here and picking at my face, which is apparently one thing that happens when I’m stressed because what on earth my skin is breaking the fuck out right now.)
Another, lesser answer is that just like anyone else on the Internet, I want people to know that I’m here. Lame, I know. Deep down I know that nothing I say is all that important to the world, but I want someone else, even a Chinese Viagra-selling spambot, to know what I think. Or more accurately, that I think.
Because let’s be real here – no one’s paying me to do this. My blog and blogs like it aren’t written to make money. This is a personal blog with a single author. I don’t have ads, there’s no user-supported content, and clearly I am not trying to be famous (if I was, I’d probably talk about my crotch less…or always). While it seems like blogs are ripe for book and movie deals these days – Facebook and Tucker Max* have movies now and Yosemitebear apparently signed with UTA, which is ridiculous because where is my money for taking a shitload of drugs and walking around in my yard? – this blog won’t ever be one of them.
I just need a place to put all the stuff that occurs to me when I’m in the bathroom. If I ever become a huge douchebag and get on Cribs, I’m going to tell everyone that’s where the magic happens. I get more ideas in there than anywhere else. Staring at my laptop yields next to zero results, but the second I twist my half-naked self over the tub to finally shave the sexless forests my legs have become, my mind starts to work. Same with brushing my teeth, straightening my hair, showering. Basically any activity that renders me incapable of transcribing my thoughts is excellent for my creativity. This here? Written in my head when I was trying to apply eyeliner while hungover this morning.
As Niya would say, “I’m just a person.” This is just my blog, a little thing I need to keep myself sane and the world safe from any other sort of onslaught. Ephemera Etc. is actually quite existential. It’s here because it is. See? I may say “balls” a lot, but I can still be deep.
*Brennan called me last night to ask what I thought about Tucker Max. He’d just seen I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell and thought, “I think Erin would punch this guy. I’m going to call her and find out.” He also said the entire movie was horseshit. Correct on both counts!