I’ve never written one before. To me, the word blog pretty much sounds like the gushings of an overenthusiastic Justin Bieber fan. Hey come read my B-log guys! I bet there are hundreds of B-logs out there on the Internet however I assure you this isn’t one of them. Don’t get me wrong, if I were a teenager now I’d be all over Beiber and that one from One Direction who is constantly put in nautical stripes. The type that seem to scream, I’m not a sailor but I COULD be ladies…once I pass my A-level in P.E.
I’ve always thought blogs were primarily for fashion students. For them to lovingly copy and paste pictures of pouting girls in frilly socks, ironic wallpaper and oversized sunglasses whilst wanking on about Zooey Deschanel. Well she has got a belting fringe. Perhaps not one that warrants the level of webspace it occupies but I genuinely reckon Zooey Deschanel’s fringe could run for president. C’mon America, don’t be so close minded. It’s time!
Now I quite like clothes but I am certainly no authority on them. This was highlighted to me as recently as last month, when a man after a gig came to tell me how funny I was and how great my ‘Amish’ looking costume was. I politely informed him I had been wearing said ‘costume’ all day, that they were my actual clothes. Apparently that was quite funny too. Who knew?
I think my blog is going to be more like a diary. This may be the entirely wrong direction as my attempts at writing a diary as a teenager were dreadful. I remember being fourteen reading through my scribbled and laboured laments over why no boys wanted to go out with me. I remember reading it and thinking THIS! THIS IS WHY! YOU’RE AWFUL! I WOULDN’T GO OUT WITH YOU EITHER, PAL! I also recall that large proportions of my teenage notebooks were filled with poems. I’d started reading Sylvia Path and Anne Sexton and like, totally got what they were like, totally trying to like, say. I didn’t. I thought watching Girl Interrupted seventeen times meant I had a deep understanding into mental health illness. I alternated these terribly ‘deep’ poems about lost or broken girls with…letters to Ronan Keating. Occasionally I’d write one to Leonardo Dicaprio but my heart was with that good looking ‘good’ Irish boy who over sang his vowels.
I don’t know why I felt anguish enough to write poetry as a teenager. I do think all teenagers have license to be anguished. There will never be a more arse clenchingly awkward and unstable time in your life. I’ve been antibiotic filled and bedbound the last couple of days. As a result I’ve indulged in a Harry Potter marathon, I admit I’m a bit of a fan and always imagined it would be amazing to be a pupil at Hogwarts .I’ve changed my mind. Magic and fizzy teenage hormones? No thank you. I had enough hassle trying to negotiate a rounders bat let alone a bloody magic wand. I didn’t have a great time at high school as it was. Not an awful time but not a great time. Who did? I am very suspicious of the friends of mine who claim to have loved their high school days. I’m heartily convinced that if you had a great time at high school you had either absolutely no self-awareness at all or you were the one dealing out the Mum jokes.
I suppose the world wide web is a bit like school isn’t it? That little surge of self importance when you get new followers on twitter, that tiny jolt of joy when somone ‘likes’ your status update or comments on your picture. The instant feeling of indignation when you realise someone has ‘blocked’ or unfriended you. All on a much less sensitive scale…Of course! We’re grown ups now! Although I did overhear a converstaion in Starbucks between two Aztec jegging wearing students, where one said to the other that she would “totally block Laura” if she didn’t start washing her own plates and cups up. Blocking someone on Facebook who you live with in real life eh? She’s right. I may live with my boyfriend, but next time he doesn’t put the bins out that lad’s getting blocked.
A blog should seem natural to me. I am one of life’s spillers. Whilst I would very much like to have the mystery and enigmatic appeal of a Hitchcock blonde, it isn’t going to happen. I wear my heart on my sleeve and no amount of Cilit Bang is going to shift it. I have to talk my problems out or through. Maybe it’s the Catholic in me, my need to purge and confess. I mentioned this to a friend of mine who said he thought Catholics didn’t talk about anything. No we talk, we just may agonize over what we just said for hours afterwards. You think you guys get hangover guilt? Feel bad for the Catholics. Our hangovers are Biblical! Which is probably why I spend most mornings wishing that dishy barman at that friend’s wedding last night, hadn’t turned the water into Rose wine.
Maybe my need to be so forthright is the no nonsense Northerner in me the “Right, let’s have this out shall we?”
Or maybe it comes from my Northern Irish mother who has the ability to talk at great length and at great speed without breathing When she’s asleep I’m checking if she has gills.
Whatever it is, it’s now here on the internet for all to see. The beginning of my adventures into blogging.
I shall try and write one a week and at some point Rita from Coronation Street will feature quite heavily. Mainly because I want to be her when I grow up. And because I’d love to see a version of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane with Rita from Corrie and Pat from Eastenders.
C’mon internet let’s make this happen!