A wonderful friend of mine has RSS alerts set up for this very blog, and takes the sweetest pleasure in reminding me that “reliable content and quality create loyalty”, not site themes or widgets, regardless of the AMAZINGNESS of my Pinterest page.
So, to quiet this petulant bestie, I post.
Here, world. Another WordPress post, relish it for about 3 nano-seconds, and then back to your regularly scheduled trolling.
I’m not into Tumblr. I tweet, I pin, I Instagram (is that a verb yet? Yes? Ok.), I write status updates, I blog, and I journal. But for the life of me, I can’t tumble, and for that you should be grateful. Honestly, after Beyonce crashed the internet, I can’t bring myself to comprehend the thought of burying my foolish self out of the rubble. And just so you know, the rubble that Bey leaves behind shines like champagne flutes filled with diamonds in the noon-day sun. It’s that cheesy, and that delicious, at the same time.
“Update” posts always feel tawdry and cheap, like I’m cheating all
32 of my readers out of the fascinating details of my 22 year-old life. The bar nights spent ping-ponging up and down Holland Ave.! The debauchery that is my bookmarks page! The Netflix marathons and self-care afternoons spent holed up in my room, with Notes on a Scandal spinning in my laptop disk drive!
As Chuck Nice once told me at a party (yeah…that happened), what’s important to remember in life is how you feel, the emotions you’re having in a moment, and remembering and harnessing those reactions and reflections.
I much prefer to muse on the foolish minutae of my day in my journal, not online. When I was a teenager (WARNING: EMBARASSING CONFESSION IN 3…2…1) I had a LiveJournal, and posted RELIGIOUSLY. I mean, I would think of “moods” and “listening to’s” all the time, and try to boil down the whittiest ones in 100 characters or less (I was Twitter before Twitter was Twitter). I deleted the blog ages ago (in the internet sense of “delete”, but we all know, nothing is ever really gone from these interwebz), but not before capsuling those misguided and lyric-filled days in a few word documents, and burying deep deep DEEP
in my external hard drive under my house. A few months ago I shared my docs with my best friend, and re-read a post or two from my early teens.
My goodness, I was insufferable.
Long story short, nowadays I prefer to angst it out in my leather-bound journal, as opposed to all over the web.
So, when I’m in a “burn book” state of mind or when my iPod shifts seamlessly from Adele to Norah Jones on its own accord, I whip out my journal and write for myself. Every hope, sketch, pitch idea, half-finished poem inspired by a Black Feminist Theories concept or Broadway showtune, to-do list, is entrusted to that tattered teal notebook I hate leaving home without, and not splayed across this site or my Twitter.
This is a purpose-driven blog, and if/ when I see fit, I’ll delve into whatever level of personal divulgence I see fit. Until then, just ask, and pin your heart out (or, you know, up…whatever works).