I spent New Year’s Eve spewing from both ends.
There’s the hook, bold and arresting. Here comes the chain: long, twisted, and formed from boring repetitive components.
Observe: the first word and subject of that inaugural sentence. “I.” As in me, the writer, the auteur with hauteur, who is very clearly self-obsessed. If that first word is any indication, further posts on this blog will feature long staring matches with the shadowy mirror lodged in my belly button. Put more simply: I’m probably going to whine about my life here a lot. If you are among the vast wriggling writhing masses of humanity with lives worth living, you will find this very boring and will not be revisiting. Good riddance! Have a nice life! I mean that un-ironically! I-really-don’t-bear-you-any-ill-will-in-the-slightest-and-legitimately-think-that-you-are-exercising-good-judegement-by-ignoring-me!
Consider: the timing. “New Year’s Eve.” Clearly this post was meant to go up last week, when it would have been auspicious and appropriate to launch a new writing project. But just as clearly this writer is a procrastinating clod who probably showed up late to his own birth (at least in comparison to his siblings—a story for another day). Instead I am posting this on January 8, 2015. My 23rd birthday. Which is kinda like New Year’s except that fewer people give a damn. Since today is Thursday I’ll probably make another post on Thursday next week.
Examine: the diction. “Spewing from both ends.” Short yet evocative, but falling short of outright profanity. Uncouth in topic but only employing implicit imagery. I could have written a more illustrative and engrossing description along the lines of: “A wave of convulsions swept through my body, from my raw tingling anus to my distended trembling glottis. I shat a stream of intestinal run off, which met the toilet bowl with a wet echoing splash-splat-thud. At the same time a torrent of watery sour yellow effluent gushed out of my mouth to join the sloshing contents of the plastic bag I clutched with desperate shaking fingers. After everything had passed, I rested my sweat-drenched forehead on my numb shivering hands, the plastic bag flopped ignominiously atop my clammy thighs, its liquid warmth contrasting unsettlingly with the icy porcelain cold of the toilet seat rim. I pulled air in ragged gasps, feebly trying to ignore the bouquet of puke and shit filling the bathroom. This is rock bottom, I thought to myself, happy fucking New Year.” <—I could have written something like that, but I didn’t because my writing style is much too timid and abstract. Anyway, if you enjoy my writing style you can revisit this blog in the future for more content. I’ve never done anything like this before so I’m not entirely sure what I’ll be posting. I’m thinking about doing satirical news articles in the style of The Pittiful News, reviews/analyses of movies, books, and tv series, and describing ideas for novels that I will never write. If I’m in a particularly self-flagellating mood I might make diary entries and opine on current events, politics, and social issues. A project I’m fairly hopeful about is a chapter-by-chapter commentary of the book Promise of Blood, done in the style of Tor.com ‘s various serial blogs.
Regard: the platform. I set up this WordPress account semi-accidentally several years ago. I haven’t used it for anything since then, and I don’t know what all any of the buttons do. But I’ll probably fiddle around with them later if I get bored. In the meanwhile, feel free to insult me in the comments section. If you have your own blog, name it and I’ll subscribe.
Reveal: oh right, the actual story that you’re here for. I guess the least I can do is sate your curiosity after making you wade through all the junk above this paragraph. Anyway, on New Year’s Eve 2014 my athlete sister—bless her oblivious cholesterol-unburdened heart—decided that I am too fat. To rectify this affront to her sense of filial aesthetics she hauled me out of my nice warm bad and cajoled me into joining her morning exercise routine of jogging, push-ups, sit-ups, and other activities so torturous that I do not wish to traumatize you with their description. Unfortunately, the strain proved too much and made me throw up last night’s chicken dinner. Coincidentally, at the same time I needed to visit the little boy’s room to dispose of last night’s pastry desert. The experience was unpleasant. On the other hand, it gave me an amusing and wholesome (if anticlimactic) story to share with all of you, so I guess I can’t complain.
Reflect: on yourself. If you are reading this, you are either myself from the future or a well-wishing acquaintance that I ambushed on Facebook. More likely the former, as I doubt even a tithe of my friends have the irrational fortitude to read the insensate screed above this paragraph (800 words! that’s longer than my college admission essay. Which probably says a lot about my personal priorities). If you are me from the future: fuck you. If you are one of my long-suffering friends and haven’t unfriended me already: thanks. I don’t show it enough, but I’m grateful for your companionship and especially for your reading all this.
Depart: without obligation. This blog is a personal project to try and make myself commit to writing on a regular basis. If you want to come along for the bumpy, angst-filled ride, you’re more than welcome. But I can barely tolerate my own bullshit, and I’ve no interest in foisting it on others. So go in peace, and have a happy New Year.