Obituary: What Happens Next

How does one greet people, who share your most intimate thoughts and ideas… many of whom you don’t even know? And some who refuse to acknowledge you? In another month, it will be a year to me writing this blog. And in that year of writing these words, much has happened. The blog has seen house changes, water crisis, medical histrionics, party gossip, disastrous love affairs, secret crushes, parental musings and death. Perhaps in death was the birth of this blog…

But this blog is nothing remarkable. There are chick blogs by the dozen and two out there. Amazing sex scenes, some even make me blush or embarrass me thinking, damn, there’s much I have not done and much I am too chicken or sheep or whatever to ever try.

There are people who have unique blogs that are based on such brilliant ideas that they make me feel like another amongst the averages out there. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being average. Blogs that have interesting content, many readers, much interaction… bloggers are being picked off by publishers and having books printed. Or approaching publishers and having books printed. They go “who?” if at all anyone mentions me.

And then I am being banned! And I don’t think mine is a blog people pass on to friends to read. That would be accepting that they read it! And I guess it might be kind of tough explaining why You read a woman’s “well written angst blog”. I was told that recently. And much as I hate criticism, the word and critique are valued. I do believe it too.

So I am a little confused. I write about my life and that too not about yatches or orgies or fun or good, happy things… I write about anger and death and betrayal and cynicism… So sometimes I wonder; and get somewhat daunted: WHY am I doing this and WHY are you reading? Just another ‘reality’ thing? (And if it’s a yes to that, why should it bother me?)

Where does it go? I am not earning money from it – despite the ad sense, my earnings are zero dollars, heh heh, I suck at money, I tell you, and am secretly quite pleased that am not making money from my blog…it’s almost like blood money (and the fact that no one will pay you for this? Say it honey, say it to yourself and do not fuckin hide from the truth: Says shit-voice in head). SEE what I mean? Even making a point about writing angsty blog, I had to get that bit in about the voice-in-the-head.

I wanted this to be a blog where people shared their stories. Their triumphs, truths, lessons, musings, love stories, angst. The BIGGEST mistake – that just goes to show how smart I am – in that enterprise was the presumption that people want to talk about themselves. They don’t! And they hate it if they find a hint of themselves in this blog, whether real or imaginary.

But then, I wanted to share my story… so that if there was anyone who was going through the same confusion I was going through, they would not think – like I did or used to or sometimes still do – that I am the only one in that boat. Somewhere, I wanted to assure myself that I was not the only one getting buggered… and in doing so wanted to reassure whoever, that listen, it’s perhaps all right, something bad is happening to most of us. We are strangely alone; and yet we are all together.

(Perhaps the reason, why I simply cannot hate the Dude. No matter what has happened. Because, somewhere, in some weird, fucking psycho-somatic-convoluted way, I understand. And it hurts more to understand; grudging is far easier.)

And then there are the things… I think, I have learnt or am looking for. Why do answers matter, someone had asked. They do, because they perhaps eaxplain who I am, what I can be, the things I find myself doing that surprise me. Those answers help me Live. To KNOW the reason or cause or reaction.

Some of the things I learnt by observation, some were easy lessons and others… They took bits of my soul. Maybe writing down some of my realizations, observations, fool-hardiness, whatever; would perhaps help someone else. Of course in the process I get hits, comments, am read and feels damn good for my Ego.

For almost-nine years in journalism, I am Nowhere. (smiles) You should see WHAT all some colleagues my age and even younger have accomplished. Oh, HOW the bile rises in me. In sheer irritation with myself. Not envy. They were working while I was FAFFING my arse off. CHASING RELATIONSHIPS. AND I STILL WANT. AAARGH.

Being read HERE, feels DAMN good. You have really helped my self-esteem… it had gone down to my ankles and was steadily seeping out. (And I don't mean the ones leaving creepy comments)

Hmm. Can I stop being angsty? Nope. But perhaps… I can entertain some other thoughts.

(Thinking. Hmmm. I know this posts sounds disjointed and all over…because I am thinking. It is not a writer’s block. But… WHAT do I write next? Shrug. Is there something you want to read? And fuck-you if you write “a sex scene”. Go pick up Penthouse or something. But remember it was perhaps published by a team of four pimply, over-hormonal, don’t-get-any-boys and not some gorgeous red-head who is telling you how she enjoys giving blow jobs. So what do you want to read? I need some help here!!!)

PS: Yo, VOTE for the reasons you think this blog is called porn: Pick ONE answer.

1. too much use of the Fuck.
2. oho, it’s actually clit chatting
3. no no, the bit about the throbbing clit
4. but she also talks parents and love-shove, dude…
5. …and penis and vagina…
6. Fuck you.