They were the goodest of times; they were the not-quite-so-goodest of times

I was thinking about some of the good times I’ve had on this blog. Y’know. The time when a bee landed on me. The time when I had a cat. The time when cockroaches. Mostly the animal times, I realise now. There have been some good animal times.

Good times, Enid; very good times.

I can’t remember why I wanted to keep a blog at first. It’s like a diary except that everything you write is public, so the opposite of a diary and UTTERLY HORRIFYING when you think about it too much. People with blogs do all that ‘promotion’ thingy, and they’re like hey, read my blog yo (I use “yo” there to show how cool and hip they are – all the cool and hip peeps use lingo like “yo” still, right? – and offer that as a counterpoint to my own not-coolness and not-hipness. And to show that they’re all young, and again to use this youngness as a counterpoint to my not-young-anymoreness.). (Do you use something as a counterpoint ‘to’ or a counterpoint ‘against’ something else? I’ve forgotten.) But I’m a little less like hey, read my blog yo as O-GAWD-HOW-DO-I-HIDE-MY-BLOG-ON-THE-INTERNET-ARRRGH-WHAT-IF-PEOPLE-REALISE-I-EXIST?

Wossis name – Catchpole? Dunham? The guy from Catch-22. He has a strange name. Yossarrian. What’s Yossarrian’s friend’s name? I don’t want to look it up, I just want to remember it. Begins with a D- doesn’t it? Whatever. That guy. His thing is staying as bored as possible in order to stretch out the remainder of his life. Mine is to be as invisible as possible to… I’m not really sure. Actually, these things aren’t really the same but it put me in mind of old Dunlop. Durgenheim. Dummore. Whatever.

Anyway the issue at hand: good times on this blog.

The problem with having a blog is that you have to write things on it to make it worthwhile. Good things. You have to show that you’re smart or successful or funny or interesting or how you don’t care or how you do care or other things of that nature (‘other things of that nature’ is one of my favourite ways to end lists, by the way. Did I get it from a film? It sounds like something I heard somewhere and adopted). While I was travelling or new and bobbing around South East Asia (bloody lifetimes ago), that was all well and good – who wouldn’t want to hear my revelations about how pineapples grow or melodramatic prosevoice musings about whatever-the-hell I was melodramatically prosevoicing about? These days, while I’m in The New Zealand – which is exactly like the England except different – and working and living a boring day-to-day life like everyone elses’ boring day-to-day life (except more boring and day-to-day), what’s there to say? I’d just log on every week and write about how the weather in Awkland is glorious/terrible, and about what the sky is like that day, and about the traffic, and about how nobody lives here and there’s nothing to do except that I’m busy all the time alongside never doing anything or having any Experiences. VE-RY uninteresting, and not the kind of thing an audience wants to read. Audiences want POSITIVITY or HILARITY or they want at the very least for you to take a goddamn second and just GOOGLE the name of Yossarian’s buddy Dingleberry or Durban or Durkheim or whatever, and stop wasting everyone’s time with all the pointless blathering.

So: the question. Why am I still keeping a blog? Actually, let me alter that sentence: why do I still keep a blog? Is it because I really, really, really like typing? Potentially. OR IS IT BECAUSE I’M PRACTICING FOR WHEN I’M A FAMOUS AUTHOR AND I HAVE A BLOG THAT OTHER PEOPLE READ BECAUSE THEY ARE AUTHOR STALKERS, A TREND INSPIRED BY MY OLD BLOGGING HABITS?!?!?!? It’s that, isn’t it? Knew there’d be a good reason somewhere. And good to know that my fingers can read the future, and that the future is me being an author which, I must admit, comes as a right surprise seeing as I don’t really write any more. [I realise that I just italicised ‘right’ and ‘write’ IN THE SAME SENTENCE and feel a superb sense of smug pride combined with hysteria and existential dread.]

I guess that’s sorted, then: back to blogging it is. Not how I expected to end this post.

Good times, Enid; good times.


The animal good times continue unremarked upon at Western Springs park or wherever the hell it was when I saw this brilliant goose.


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