There once was a time when I kept things to myself. I wrote short stories and poems in a journal that I kept hidden from the rest of the world. It sat in my underwear drawer between the thongs I never wore and the granny panties I couldn’t live without. In it I’d write nothing of note, nothing scandalous and nothing hyper-intellectual.
For years I filled these lined pages with the usual crackpot observations, foul-mouthed sarcasm and melodramatic longing. Self-serving dribble if you ask me, sometimes cleverly articulated, oftentimes not.
From my 8th grade diary: Life already feels like a traffic jam, just ridin the ass of the person in front.
Then one day (five years ago) I started blogging.
At the time I all but ignored advances in technology, including social media, smart phones and online banking. Hell, I still considered books on tape to be blasphemous. But like many 20-something curmudgeons, I
warmed to learned to tolerate social media. Peer pressured into joining Facebook in 2008, I denounced it quickly as a mindless fad, a time suck for people who spent too much time nosing around other people’s business. I uploaded an image of two greasy chicken wings and saved it as my profile pic.
My real friends already know what I look like. Na-na-na-bo-bo.
The first few times I left a comment on somebody’s page, I signed it with my name.
You look cute in this picture. – Heidi Kurpiela
Then someone told me I should join Twitter. So I joined Twitter. True to form, I let the account sit inactive for years.