Writing a blog isn’t easy. Half of my time is spent coming up with ideas and the other half is spent telling myself they’re shit and I can do better. What I’m left with is a blank page and an inferiority complex.
On the rare occasion, I’m able to put something decent together on the fly, but by and large my writing process resembles a hostage situation: there’s a lot of fear, some crying, bargaining, a standstill and then release.
The beginning is always peaches and puppies. “Today is a new day,” I think. “Today is the day I write my crowning masterpiece and receive the adoration and accolades due to someone of my literary standing.” I’ll develop a professional relationship with Lena Dunham based on mutual respect, Mindy Kaling will tweet me and Tina Faye will know I exist.
From here, my positivity quickly spirals into self-doubt and desperation, illustrated by the stream of consciousness below:
What. Should. I. Write. About.
I’m trying too hard.
Damn it, Buzzfeed! I was going to do a thing on House Hunters.
Actually. This is really funny.
I need to be funny.
[Googles "How to be funny"]
I should write something about Lindsay Lohan.
Is Lindsay Lohan relevant?
I wonder what Paris Hilton is up to?
How do you spell “quidditch”?
I need a word that means butt sex but isn’t “butt sex.”
I can’t write about butt sex.
What about to do lists. I write to do lists.
This is funny.
This is funny…but it could be funnier.
I’ll table it for next week. I need more time to be funny.
This is why no one reads my blog.
I’m going to go eat my feelings now.
Alright. Do or die. Fight or flight. You have nothing to fear, but fear itself.
And shit writing.
Just. Write. SOMETHING.
[6 hours later]
Fuck it. I’ll post a gif.
How I feel every time I get a “save the date” in the mail
As bathing suit season draws near and my 20s draw to a close I tell myself this is my last chance to kill it in a two-piece. Eager to impress my friends with a thin frame and the ass of a 12-year-old boy, I prepare for the vernal ritual: yo-yo dieting and inconsistent exercise.
Rather than approaching my well-being from a healthy perspective drawn from years of education and reason, I opt for extreme methods and guaranteed failure.
In order to gauge the amount of training required for my makeover, I step on the scale only to be appalled by my own gluttonous mass. Undeterred and unprepared, I denounce French bread pizza and vow to make my body a gluten-free temple, even though I understand gluten as much as I understand Quidditch.
Armed with a list of power foods I go grocery shopping and return home with lentils and coconut water. Now that I’ve removed carbohydrates, sugar, salt, trans fats, saturated fats and fat from life, I can focus on my exercise regime.
Since writing on calendars is the next best thing to making lists, I mark the days I plan on going to the gym to achieve maximum fat burning results. Because I am a champion, I allow myself one day off from the gym per week.
By Day 3, I’ve logged 5 1/2 hours at the gym.
Pleased with my progress, I decide I deserve a reward for all my hard work. But I am a warrior and warriors are disciplined. I buy myself a bag of chocolate chip cookies, under the self-imposed condition that I eat a single serving: 3 cookies per day.
I eat my ration and close the bag before setting it off to the side.
Hardened by discipline and weak from hunger, I try to distract myself with reruns of How I Met Your Mother, but the cookies call to me and I am powerless against their chocolatey prowess.
I reopen the bag and – like a deranged scene from Noah’s ark – shove them into my mouth two by two. Once the sugar hits my bloodstream, I lose consciousness for a moment, lost in the decadent sweetness.
I spend the next two hours gorging myself on chocolate chips, pizza bagels, string cheese and popcorn until my stomach bleeds. Ashamed by my lapse in control, I renew my commitment to fad diets and vow to make up for my lack of restraint…tomorrow.
The next day I find myself making excuses not to go to the gym and somehow rationalize ordering Chinese.
Like Neo, I’ve tasted the chocolate-covered red pill and have seen the light.
Resigned, I drive over to Target where I buy a beach cover up and a king size bag of peanut M&M’s.
It’s difficult to calculate how much time I’ve wasted on Facebook since joining in 2006.
Facebook is kind of like crack cocaine,
minus the paranoid psychosis except its legal. Both are extremely addictive and both require increased usage to maintain the desired high.
As with alcoholics or meth addicts, as Facebook usage increases so does tolerance. In other words, the longer you’ve been on Facebook, the more time you have to spend on it to enjoy it.
The Facebook of 2014 is not the Facebook I knew in 2006. Back then Facebook was a voyeuristic playground filled with compromising photos, emotional status updates, and the coup de grâce: the relationship status change. Whether you wanted to connect with friends or stalk the shit out of your ex, Facebook was the medium to do it on. Now Facebook is all about politically-charged posts and engagement photos. Sure, there’s the errant meme and I’ve never seen a cat vine I didn’t like, but the majority of it is mundane status updates and Candy Crush invites.
Should I come to my senses and deactivate my Facebook account in the future, these are some of the things I imagine I’ll have more time for:
1. Human interaction.
3. My blog.
5. Money. If I had put in half as much effort into building a business as I did tagging photos, I might have my own internet startup by now.
6. Exercise. Just kidding.
7. Responsible adult obligations like paying bills, balancing my checkbook and making the bed.
8. Personal hygiene. It’s not that I don’t shower, it just takes me awhile to get around to it.
10. Extreme Couponing. Just ’cause.
I took a yoga class last night after a year-long absence from the tradition. I never excelled at it before, but last night I was especially terrible. Half of the time I reverted to child’s pose and the other half was spent trying not to fart. During chair pose, or Utkatasana – which is Sanskrit for bend your knees and stick out your ass as far as you can without falling over – the instructor told me to “go deeper” and I told the instructor that that was all the “utkatas” I could “ana”.
What I think I look like during yoga
What I actually look like during yoga