I wouldn’t call myself a perfectionist, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I have had extreme trouble producing a first blog post. I am also aware that the chances of anyone actually reading this are extremely thin, and that I shouldn’t worry because no one will see it anyway, but I do. I am the girl with messy hair, coffee on her top, chipped nail polish – and teeth- and yet I cannot bring myself to let anyone read anything I write. I am the author of books that nobody can read and the owner of (several) hard drives of started-but-not-quite-finished documents, stories, and ideas. I was embarrassed to hand coursework and essays in to teachers because I wasn’t happy with the starting line of the second paragraph. Half the reason I am not yet at university is because the personal statement took me so long to write. So, here I struggle on, attempting to write my first post.
I have this issue with several things. I am the unsatisfied. (I make a fabulous girlfriend in case you were wondering) I have attempted to have a diary, blog, events-of-my-life, bitch-fit sort of platform to inform absolutely nobody of the things I think and things that happen to me but have never published or stuck with it because I was never good enough.
This blog is different. This one was not my idea. It was my friends’ dad who suggested I should do it. He came up with the name and everything. (yes, this is the updated version.) He thinks I should have this blog because all the unusual and painfully truthful events of my life are apparently noteworthy (and because I’m unemployed- feel free to contact me for ANY work opportunities). And yet, half the reason I can’t write a first post is because of him. It’s not good enough. This is the man who knew his plane was crashing because the stars were all wrong; this is the man who got invited and tricked into his own wedding; this is the man who almost dated his own sister; this is the man with the most extraordinary life. This man, whatever way you measure it, succeeded with life. I am the girl with foot in mouth disease, an unfortunately ironic name and issues up the wazoo. How the shit does that compare?
The posts that follow this will consist of my every-day life, so will be much more laughable than this. Whilst they will not compare to any story ‘this man’ could tell you, I hope they will at least amuse you. I have 19 years of awkwardness and embarrassment locked away in some very dark and peculiar place in my mind to unleash on you. I have tales of my delightful mother, my estranged family, my batshit town and my enchanting workplace, all coated in sarcasm, dripping with humiliation and sparkling with cynicism.
Originally posted 07/10/2014
originally titled ‘The First One’