Okay, so I’ll be the first to admit that this blog thing has maybe not been quite the startling success I had both anticipated and intended. This might be, in some tangential way, connected to the fact that I have not made a blog entry in something approaching seven months.
I thought it would write itself, really. And I Am Very Disappointed In It for not doing so.
Regardless, I suppose I am somewhat to blame for this, I am partly culpable for my blog’s seeming lack of motivation. Maybe I didn’t give it enough praise as a young blogling. It’s difficult, you see. Work gets in the way. Work and the ugly business of getting older. Thoreau said that most men lead lives of quiet desperation, but he was only half-right, given that he failed to predict the Camaro.
Oh sure, at first, everything was great. Those early years were a blur of diaper changings and first steps, which neatly segued (montage-like, with music and cuts betwixt time-faded film clips) into halcyon days of running behind little Bloggy’s bike, letting go and watching it crash headfirst into a tree, possibly because I had been kind of pointing the bike in that direction, treeward, but that was mostly because I was drunk, drunk and filled with a nameless rage, which I have now given a name, which is Walter, Walter the Rage.
Things changed after that. Bloggy was a little less willing to get on a bike after that, or a horse, or especially that rocket sled I built out of stolen NASA booster rockets and Mentos, even though I painted a very friendly-looking puppy on the side, although I can’t actually paint, and was not aware at the time of the proper number of eyes for a puppy, one-hundred being A Bit Much.
Time marched on, and a distance grew between us. And when I got off the phone, it occurred to me, my Blog, was just like me, yeah. My Blog was Just. Like. Me.
Or it would be, if I was a bunch of text on a screen, stored in the vastness of the Internet and regurgitated for you at your leisure. And for all you know, I am exactly that. You have no proof of otherwise. Unless you actually know me. In which case, sorry I don’t call more often.
Of course, none of this is actually my fault, as I am an American, and my citizenship includes an inalienable right to deny responsibility. Because, I am, you see, an alcoholic.
Just kidding. I’m not an alcoholic. I have no problem with booze. In fact, I love booze! I could drink all day. You should see me at work. I can barely throw up on myself without having a drink first.
No, no, friends and countrymen, I am addicted to a much more pernicious substance, more insidious in its consequences, and far more ninja-like in its method, what with the sneaking undetected into dojos and castles and 80s TV shows. That substance is Laziness.
Laziness is a problem that afflicts millions of Americans. Its symptoms may include being lazy, some other stuff, and... I don’t know, something else. I mean, I could look it up, but Christ! The Internet is way over there.
Anyway, that’s my excuse, and I’m going to see someone about it, not a life coach or therapist or anything silly like that. I’m going to call my 7th grade gym teacher, Mr. Ryder. That guy knew how to get you to do a push-up. I figure he’s got about twenty years of calisthenics saved up for me.
That’ll learn me. I’ll be back in blogging shape in no time. It’ll be like Rocky, only, instead of biffing hangers of meat, I’ll be not doing anything of the sort.
In case you can’t tell, I don’t really know how to end this one.
