I never thought I’d blog.
The idea of it–blogging–makes me irrationally afraid that I’ll somehow morph into Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw: gazing into the curved face of an early-2000s-era computer, typing aloud as I spout vague clichés about love in a revelatory tone, the flimsy strap of my camisole drifting down one shoulder. (Just to be clear, I love Sarah Jessica Parker, and Sex and the City is a great and true pleasure.)
But there are a few problems with this scene I imagine. First, I would never wear something as revealing as a camisole. (In fact, my standard nightgown is an ankle-length, collared garment that calls to mind a pre-sexually-awakened Jane Eyre.) More so, though, the concept of self-promotion has always filled me with an odd mixture of horror and nausea; specifically, self-promotion makes me want to crawl into my dog’s bed and gouge my eyes out with his pawnails, which the vet is always telling us to clip, but which we neglect to do out of laziness.
Alas: here we are. The blog exists. Ugh. I hate myself.