I’m posting again.
Lemme repeat that, to add to the general effect. And to really take things up a notch, I’m using italics and the melodramatic young adult lit period-after-every-word-trick (did you know the British call them full-stops? I like full-stop so much better than
boring stodgy period). Take a look…
I’m. Posting. Again.
When I started talesfromtheflatlands, I still had that wow-I-have-a-BLOG-now! spark, the kind of spark that prompts you to post whenever you have the time, to marvel over the THREE VIEWS that your blog has gotten not counting your own eighteen–who looked at my blog, my amateur, lowly blog? was it a kid, a grown-up, a friend, an enemy, a random dude who has nothing better to do? Even when you find out it was your mom, maybe taking pity on you or something, it still all seems so thrilling.
I’ve never really been one for stuff like writing in a diary or journal. It’s kinda funny, actually. Maybe once, twice, okay, three times a year I’ll spend two hours or so being nostalgic. Like, going through boxes of my folders and notebooks from fourth grade, reading my paper that I wrote two years ago on modern communication, then digging these weird boxes out of my closet and finding seaglass or Halloween candy or an origami frog I made during an artsy rush. Then, I’ll read through these diaries I’d resolved to write in once a day in maybe fourth or fifth grade. I probably spent more time on the “please email me if you find this diary” note at the front of the book than I did on actual, y’know, writing, but it’s pretty fun to read through my histrionic (I think we should all just take a moment and thank the computer dictionary/thesaurus for all it does it this world) I-sincerely-promise-to-dedicate-my-life-to-you, diary entries, each affecting a different sort of voice. There’s the good-little-naive-schoolgirl entry (I feel as if I’m on an emotional rollercoaster where I’m tall enough to ride but don’t meet the age limit. Diary, my emotions are all jumbled up. And for the record, Mary* won’t play with me during recess. Again), the lovesick-ten-year-old-entry, (I feel so happy around him! Everything he does makes me smile, and I think he likes me, too. Oh, diary, I KNOW he does!), and–the worst of the bunch–the fifth graderly attempt at being a rebel. (God, school’s driving me CRAZY. And I need a lock for my door. And I’m sick n’ tired of people treating me like a little kid just because I’m ten.) Ha-ha. One entry per diary. Then, maybe three months later, I’ll have crossed out a diary, oh diary, you’ve missed so much! entry. Maybe I was lazy, but maybe I just lost hope around diary #5 or 6.
Anyway, I’ve never up until now really taken much pleasure in this sort of thing. I mean, blogs don’t have to be of the diary type. I could’ve done, I dunno, a cooking blog, or a book review blog, or something. But I didn’t want to confine what I could write about, I guess. Blogs, in a certain, way, are really different from a journal or diary. There’s this kind of thrilling sensation that comes with clicking the publish button, and then seeing your post up on your own blog, looking really clean and satisfying. Also, other people have no problem with this, but I’ve always had trouble understanding how much effort I should put into a diary entry that’s supposed to be private–as in, no one’s gonna ever read this but me, so why should I write something good? (Once, I tore out a diary entry and left it for my mom to read. And once you reach that level of utter desperation, things tend to go downward.) People, even if it’s just your parents and a few friends, will read your blog. This was enough for me, I guess.
Moving on. Yeah, I’m posting again, and no, in a lot of ways a blog isn’t like a journal. But I still haven’t been posting very much at all. This summer, I really have no excuses for taking a month off before posting, so I’m setting this hopefully-reachable goal of posting at least three times a week. Don’t all congratulate me at once. Form a line. (I’ve always hated these jokes, but I couldn’t stop myself. Sorry to inflict them upon you.)
Other than the whole I’m-posting-again deal, today has basically been another pleasing summer day. I went out with my dad, grandpa, and brother to Ben’s Chili Bowl, which is this crazy, sort of old-fashioned place on the outskirts of a hip neighborhood that serves -chili -chili dogs -chili fries -veggie chili -all of the above with veggie chili -burgers that seem to just be there in case someone entirely clueless comes around, missing the point of the restaurant and ordering the equivalent of a salad at McDonalds (sorry, Ben’s Chili Bowl. I bet your burgers are perfectly fine. But really….the thought that anyone would actually order one….when they’re these places that specialize in burgers just around the corner….). My mom and grandma stayed at home and read their books. Meanwhile, us crazy people ordered numerous chili dogs&fries, sodas, and then went over to my grandpa’s photo gallery to pick up mail and look around. Of course, any venture to Ben’s Chili Bowl deserves to be washed down with gelato–in my case, peanut butter and dulce de leche. For whatever reason, everyone seemed appalled–APPALLED–at the fact that I was ordering peanut butter! I mean, seriously, is that so weird? Maybe it is. Actually, it does sound kind of weird. Peanut butter gelato. Still, though, if the name wasn’t so odd-sounding, I bet people would order it and love it. It has this cozy, solid, mildly sweet flavour that I adore. Maybe instead of calling it peanut-butter-gelato, people should call it PBG. Y’know, like a play on peanut butter and jelly? PBJ, PBG? No? Hm…
So we got home, the odd melange of chili dogs and peanut butter gelato weighing us down and telling us–urging us!!!– (me) to eat a cookie, drink some iced tea, and watch an episode of Glee. Which I happily did.
I took some pics of my grandparents house, by the way. Little corners that seem pleasantly quirky.
I know these aren’t, erm, the best pictures, but I’m just starting up with this whole visuals thing.
Well, have a nice day, and don’t go ’round ordering any burgers at a chili place.
by the way, *=fake name. that was from way before, when i used a random name in my diary entry.