Dear Readers,
As any of you who have read this blog know—which let’s be honest is all you because I am not picking up new readers—I have not written anything in quite a long time. Some of you may also know that I started writing this internet monstrosity 9 years ago, as a 21-year-old frat bro. My life then, and for far too long after, was about drinking, partying, pretending that I had no interest in talking to girls, and covering up my loneliness and lack of confidence with a sea of fart jokes and live tweeting each and every occasion when I’d defecate in public. Obviously, that’s what this blog was about then, and for far too long after as well. And I never questioned that. It was easy. It was predictable. It represented who I was. Or at least who I used to be.
Now it’s 6:33 AM on a Thursday, and I’m sitting down to write. And I can’t take it anymore. I can’t keep putting up the facade. I can’t handle the desperation. I can’t continue on feeling nothing for what I’m putting on the page and yet having an undeniably thick layer of anxiety hovering over me whenever I think about whether or not people will like it. I realized I was going through this when my feyonce, Kristin, asked why I had not posted lately. This all begins with her
As any of you who have read this blog know—which let’s be honest is all you because I am not picking up new readers—I have not written anything in quite a long time. Some of you may also know that I started writing this internet monstrosity 9 years ago, as a 21-year-old frat bro. My life then, and for far too long after, was about drinking, partying, pretending that I had no interest in talking to girls, and covering up my loneliness and lack of confidence with a sea of fart jokes and live tweeting each and every occasion when I’d defecate in public. Obviously, that’s what this blog was about then, and for far too long after as well. And I never questioned that. It was easy. It was predictable. It represented who I was. Or at least who I used to be.
Now it’s 6:33 AM on a Thursday, and I’m sitting down to write. And I can’t take it anymore. I can’t keep putting up the facade. I can’t handle the desperation. I can’t continue on feeling nothing for what I’m putting on the page and yet having an undeniably thick layer of anxiety hovering over me whenever I think about whether or not people will like it. I realized I was going through this when my feyonce, Kristin, asked why I had not posted lately. This all begins with her
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