Please excuse me, I just blogged my pants.

So, I've always scoffed at bloggers. 

Like seriously scoffed. 

"Oh, yeah," they say, as they sip their non-starbucks espresso, glancing around as if someone had just called their name from across the room. "I, ya know, blaaaawwwged a bit last night. Wasn't much, you know, honestly." And then, as if they had been stranded, starved in the desert for 17 weeks and your coat was a land flowing with milk and honey and homemade bread fresh from the oven, they GRASP ahold of you and beg, "Did you read my blog? Wasn't I interesting? Wasn't I brilliant??? Could you feel my pain? I could!" And quicker than it began, they drop you like hot potato pancake, twirl their hair silently a couple of times and say, "Yeah, wasn't much... Just you know, where I am right now." It kinda makes me want to barf a little. And by a little I mean... you get the picture. 

"Buy a journal," I say. "Keep that for your kids to dig up, glance at, then throw away when you die." 

And then the internet kept existing. 

And then I filled up 12 journals.

And then, one night, it came a crublin' down it did. This little tower in Scoffland that I had built. One night in early January, 2009, as if I had run out the last of the reserves, I find myself, helplessly, typing away on the ol' computational device.

Its 1:52 AM. 

I just tried about 4-7 clever names before cursing them silly. How did that girl know, and then take(!) my parent's nickname for me? Does she want money? I could find it. No I couldn't. Or what about the guy that put two perfectly opposite words together, one of which is my last name? How did he do that before me? He's mean and a HALF! Then I remember that early birds get worms and jerks that make fun of people that write stuff for all to see can wait to the end of the line if the powers of the www deem it so. I.e.:  shut it Lynner UpsideDowney. 

Its 2:14 AM now. With every typed key I grow more enthralled with the click of my online voice. The addiction is so haunting. If I fall prey to the lure of blogging, (did I just type that word without malace?) what could be next? An endorsement for anorexia?  Starting all my sentences with the word, "Honestly." Lost marathons? OH PLEASE NO! Please please please no. 

At one time in my life I said I never wanted to win an Oscar. But really, I just wanted to win the Oscar and then say, "I don't even want it." That to me was the definition of enviable. I think its like that with the bl--ing word. I know I'd eat this stuff up, man. But I wouldn't ever want a soul to know I would. Scoffy, scoffy, bitter black scoffy. 

So tomorrow, please be kind when I approach you, or should I say, pretend not to approach you. I'll be sipping my espresso shot, non-chalantly mentioning something about a youtube clip, then dropping in a delicate a facebook reference, I'll sort of slip in there a quick, "Did ya... read my blog?" And when I do, please remember this: that it has been since this very moment's moment, or perhaps long ago that I have been eagerly, yearningly, patiently awaiting the daylight where I can slip next to you, all suave and uninterested until the desperation takes over and I cry out: "Wasn't I so deep and interesting? Wasn't my pain so real? Am I not more hilarious than a love child between the love child of Tina Fey/Steven Colbert and the love child of  Lucille Ball/Mel Brooks??? HELP ME, I BLAAAAWWWWWGED!" Please... remember I've been holding this for a long long time.  

And before you go, I might need some help getting cleaned up. I literally just blogged myself.