Clearly, I don't have a compelling life, because I do have a blog. A sad, little, floundering blog that rarely gets comments from people even though they look at a myriad of posts on a regular basis. But, I'm counting it something that people even look.
It's something because I don't have a better term to identify it when I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a strange thing. (Or both? Could it be both?)
On one hand, it's pretty flattering to think that someone, somewhere reads what I have to say. (Granted, that person may read the first line and then skip to a more interesting blog...like, say, Young House Love.) But it's humbling, too. And a little scary. I'm not ashamed of the things I've said, but this--these words--they're me. And since they're mine, I
I can't promise that things will get all lighthearted and fuzzy around here soon. My mom and brother are fond of saying that they need stability in one area of life (church, work, home) in order to find peace...unfortunately, this isn't a time of stability. But promise me that you'll keep reading? That you'll give a little feedback every now and again? That you'll straight up lie to my face so we can be friends (like ganstas and hoes)? Kidding on that last one. Unless I post pictures and you feel the need to comment on my hips. Be kind, people. Be kind.
Especially when you figure out that the upside of my day may be this space on the interwebs. My apologies to Sublime, but bloggin'--it's what I got. Remember that.