In the Beginning

Greetings and Salutations

I decided to start blogging because it seems like the cool thing to do for all aspiring authors, and as everyone knows, you should always submit to peer pressure: your friends will like you more and strangers will respect your coolness and often shower you with praise. Seeing that everyone wants to be praised, this is a good thing. Also, the idea of writing about writing depresses me for some reason, so this will not—ever?!—be focused on writing. No one would read that unless I was someone important.

I briefly discussed starting a blog over the weekend, as my friend and I visited North Carolina and DC for a national track meet followed by brief sightseeing in our nation’s capital. The idea became far more appealing as I was drinking Blue Moons in a train station at 1am while rambling about all the fucked up and sadistic things my friends and I did as children—the usual, like beating each other in the face with milk cartons full of rocks.

Anyway, I finally decided to start blogging, and while troubled that I might run out of things to write about, as I don’t do all that much that interests other people, I ultimately decided that I enjoy being heard and forcing others to listen. Sadly, it will take at least a week for me to reach a million followers, and perhaps two weeks until my word becomes truth rather than the ramblings of the insane and sleep deprived. Even then, I can’t force anyone to listen. Not yet at least.

That said, the first week or so will be the hardest and decide whether or not I continue this lifelong/spur of the moment dream/sudden fancy.  My hope is that I decide to quit and regrettably declare my resignation on my blog—it’s me, not you, I just don’t have the time to really make this work, but I want you to know how much you mean to me and that maybe, someday, when the time is right, we can make this work and everything will be just like it used to be, you know, back when we smiled and danced and went to lavish parties where we talked about The Great Gatsby and sipped pinot noir, except you always preferred the sweet whites, rieslings and moscatos and gewürztraminers, because they reminded you of the first time we met on the pier when a hurricane brewed out at sea, and you said, what was it? The wind tastes sweet, and you took a deep, exaggerated breath, like there’s an island out there in all that tempestuous darkness, an island of fine wines and blue skies, where all is right and all is good—and the following morning I wake up to find my lawn covered in devote fans and news reporters alike, all begging me to continue blogging. I decide that yes, I do owe it to my fans to continue. Cheers for minutes straight, thunderous claps of approval, men and women openly weeping and embracing one another. And all is right, and all is good.