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.
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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.
PERSONAL TIMELINE.
(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.
1 comment:
No comments on this? Hm.
"Finn, inside and then out."
That is poetry.
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