I know that you will all be green with envy when you hear that someone from Wilayah Persekutuan, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia has been reading my blog.
With the Malaysian bot crawling through the posts on Daughter of Divagation, I have hereby become Blog Queen of the Universe WITHOUT splitting my infinitives.
On my new résumé I included my blog name. I am certain that future employers will be so struck by my insights that they will immediately create a new position within the company structure that allows me to blog all the day long. They will congratulate themselves on recognizing my talent and ask themselves why they didn't think of screening applicants through the blog system sooner.
"The creamed corn of the crop," they will exclaim. "And, she is all ours."
Listen, blogland is tough. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.
Dear Future Employer:
You don't know me, but I would like to direct you to my "blawg" to learn a little bit more about me. Things like: my daily elimination, creeps who have wronged me, how I really feel about authority, and how inflated my opinion of myself really is.
That is C-A-N-N-E-D-C-O-R-N-A-G-A-I-N because if you can't have it fresh---you oughta have it canned.
Before "Google" became a verb, I admit that I poured over the pages of medical dictionaries with some degree of regularity. I traced my symptoms through the glossy photos and definitions until I was convinced that I was the carrier of some genetic disorder that manifests itself only in the second born of tenth generation rice farmers in the far most corner of Indonesia. Never mind that it was as improbable as Mother Teresa giving birth to Mike Tyson. I could convince myself in a nanosecond that I had it, and I was going to die.
You might assume that the advent of the Internet and its powerful search engines eased my worries. Instead with that much medical information at my fingertips, I have been able to detect signs of scurvy, non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, diabetes, and a host of other potentially life threatening illness lurking in the ache of my joints and behind the itch in my eyes.
I found that not only am I a knucklehead, but I am an alphabetically deficient knucklehead.
Trust me. One hates to be deficient in any letter of the alphabet on any day of the week. My deficiency happens to fall in the letter B. More specifically--vitamin B.
Consumption of sugar, white flour products, processed foods (lack nutrients and may contain many additives), conventionally grown produce (lack nutrients and are contaminated with toxins such as pesticides), alcohol, and stress contribute to a vitamin B deficiency.
What does this say about my coffee roll and road rage and me?
Symptoms include:
hypochondria (now THERE is a surprise)
mild to severe depression
vague fears, apprehension, suspicions (who is reading this??)
restlessness (who wants to go to Alaska before dinner?)
fatigue, stomach pains
decreased or increased appetite
craving for sweets
heart palpitations, chest pains
muscular soreness
pain, tingling or achiness
soreness of the mouth
burning or itching eyes
difficulty swallowing, sore throat
headaches, insomnia or sleep disturbances
Of course, this list reminds me of Bill Murray in "What About Bob?" itemizing his maladies to Dr. Leo Marvin: cold sweats, hot sweats, numb lips, fingernail sensitivity, pelvic discomfort...
So my question is: Does the need to eat wheat germ mean that I am getting old? Or could it be I am not the twenty-four year old who once thought that a "Coke and a smile" doth a complete breakfast make?
I have realized that my journal entries may read more like laundry lists than the words of a literary laureate. I don't suppose that anyone will take the time to tell me this. No one cares about my blog, you know.
Wait, no one cares about YOUR blog. YOUR blog.
True to myself, I shall list the blog types (not to be confused with the blood types):
There are those bloggers who are too witty for their own good. I need to ask someone to 'splain them to me. Someone who is patient to sound out the big words and draw pictures for the parts I can't understand.
Then there are those bloggers who can't choose the perfect word, so they use them all for good measure. You know the one in search of the perfect, idyllic, concise, precise, exact, special combination of words.
I would be remiss not to mention the GROSS bloggers. The bodily function folks. I don't even try to decipher them. I can't. I am too busy bleaching my eyeballs.
My favorites are the bloggers who can take a very ordinary event, put it in pigtails and call it a party. I like it when someone tears a hole in the corner of their world just big enough for me to recognize a bit of myself on the other side. I am just narcissistic enough to enjoy the PING.
I am my least favorite type of blogger though. I am a list maker. A test taker. A code breaker, and I like mine poached with flies. It is the horse sense of it all.
Dear Dr. Blog:
A small part of me wants to join the bloggers who swim in the deep end of the alphabet pool. I want to practice my backstroke with the hardcore, post every 3.9 minutes bloggers who maintain multiple blog sites and spreadsheets to track their responses.
I do want to splash my consonants and vowels around like nobody's business. I really do. I want to cavort and canoodle with the full power of the English language. I want my words to say a little about a lot and a lot about very little.
I want to be a Blog Queen. I want to drive the pink verbmobile. Gyrate my gerunds. Dangle my modifiers. Reveal my past participles. And, proposition with my prepositions. A contender, darnit, I want to be a contender.
Instead I sit in front of my little flat screen. I type and backspace. Backspace and type. And, then I close the whole entry without posting. I just can't seem to commit.
Can you help me figure out why I am squeamish about brave blogging?
