Hi honey, I’m home!
I guess I forgot about you for a minute there, Tumblr. I got pretty busy going to work and coming home and going to work and coming home and drinking and going to work and coming home. It gets taxing. But I’m a writer, and if there’s one thing writers love, it’s putting words they don’t completely hate on a social media platform and getting little to no response, and Twitter wasn’t fulfilling that need quite enough for me. So here I sit. Type. Whatever, I’m in bed, so sit is technically true.
Has anything of import happened since last we spoke? Maybe. I can’t remember if I told you I’m moving to Boston to go to TV school - with all that going to work and coming home, the time tends to blur - but if I didn’t, there we are. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex that I’ve forgotten what it feels like and am starting to think that maybe it’s just some kind of board game. I drink a lot, and I like gin now because (a) vodka is for college freshman and Russians, and (b) gin is the official spirit of embittered people who are still able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I’ve learned how to live without a microwave or cable, so that’s cool. I cut off most of my hair and let it grow into my natural color, which apparently is a lovely golden brown. This has given all of my latent Liz-Lemon-and-Hannah-Horvath tendencies (which absolutely no other young women have except me, Buzzfeed) a physical manifestation, and this both amuses me and creeps me out. I’ve been living on smoothies for the past six hours and I already hate it. I still can’t finish Infinite Jest.
That should be about it.
Should I probably take this party over to WordPress or Blogspot, just as I moved here from LiveJournal lo those many years ago? Probably. I don’t post enough pictures of cats or Benedict Cumberbatch to really necessitate a Tumblr. As it is, I’ve been looking to protest the news that the word for moving image is now pronounced like America’s favorite peanut butter, and maybe leaving this website once and for all would be the way to do it. But here’s the thing, guys - I’m as much a sentimentalist as I am a horrible journal keeper, and how else am I going to remember my college years minus the one where I had a nervous breakdown and actually did maintain a written journal?
Or maybe that’s the point. I’m about to start grad school, then ostensibly a career. Getting rid of my long red mane, tritely symbolic as I intended it to be, can’t be the only way for me to move on. The nature of this world I’m moving into is such that I still have to whore myself on the Internet, but surely there’s a more grown-up way to do it. (There probably isn’t, but I’m still young and idealistic, allow me this one.) I can ask myself all the same hypothetical questions without having to worry about someone going back and finding that one really intense entry I wrote three years ago after I told someone I loved them and didn’t quite get the answer I wanted. Not that I wouldn’t continue to write really intense, metaphor-laden bullshit - you’ve read this, you know how many feelings I have - but it’d be older, wiser intense metaphors. And that somehow makes it better. I think.
I suppose I don’t really know. I’ll try to figure it out, but in the meantime, you’re stuck with me again. And I’ll make a concerted effort to post more pictures of cats and Benedict Cumberbatch. There’s no need to be wasteful.
Damn, Tumblr. I don’t even halfway give a fuck about you anymore.