“Dick’s sells tents for your gerbils/hamsters/rats. Kind of expensive though.”
When my friend Mike posted this photo on Facebook, two things ran through my mind. Firstly-of-all, that is clearly a tent for cats. And B.) I recalled (via comment): I told Brandon I wanted to buy one for the cats, and he was like, “Those aren’t for sale, those are displays.” and I was like, “I’LL PAY FULL PRICE. I DON’T EVEN CARE! LOOK AT THAT THING!” Then a friend of his commented those three little words which would ultimately have far greater impact on my life than I could have imagined.
“Classic The Bloggess”
I had no idea what it meant to “classic” something, nor did I gather how to do so to this “Bloggess” thing. Naturally I turned to the only resource that has gotten me through life this far: Google. Either directly or indirectly, she had led me to the famed The Bloggess blog and I decided I would totally classic the shit out of this, whatever that happened to entail. The very first posts I stumbled upon, I read about dead bodies, and earholes, and uncut cocaine. I laughed. I cried. I did questionable things in the alleyway with strangers.
Then it got serious. This witty word wizard completely broke the mold of her newer posts and bitch slapped me with the big ugly dick of reality. There was no way that someone who had such a way with words and such a hilariously satirical sense of humor could genuinely share this mutual burden. I could have sworn she had somehow read and transcribed my thoughts- a plagarism of the prefrontal cortex.
“Every Friday night starts the pictures of friends who are out at parties and dinners and with more friends and strangers. I love to see them dressed up and happy but a tiny bit of myself looks at those pictures and feels like a loser because my anxiety disorder makes me run from crowds and there’s no way I could ever do what they’re doing.”
Here was someone I found myself relating to on so many levels, but who had somehow built a wildly successful blog, complete with sponsors, a plethora of viewers, and awards up the bum. “This is pretty much what I’ve dreamed my blog would be if I had the motivation and/or confidence to build a blog” I told the woman responsible for unleashing this beast on me. In well intentioned retort, she replied “I bet she felt the same way when she first started.” And while I felt this was highly unlikely, and The Bloggess was clearly some kind of otherworldy blogging demi-god, her more somber posts reminded me that she was, in fact, human. I pointed my finger menacingly at the screen, knowing she was right and I had no valid counter argument.
And that’s how Introaverted was born. I make no claims to my writing ability, nor do I promise that this will
always ever be interesting and that a day will come that you don’t feel like beating me for wasting your time. I do not strive to emulate The Bloggess, but I do idiolize her, and you should probably stop rallying the townspeople, spare your torches, and just go read her blog. Or pick up a copy of “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened”, which I finished this morning, and call out all the fucks on Goodreads who claim this is too “uneven” and congratulate them on their perfectly aligned thoughts (and probably breasts). Must be nice. Bitch.
But seriously, if you enjoy rapid fire babble and minimal editing (as I clearly do) I highly suggest you read as much of her works as physically possible before your eyes start to bleed. You should also make it a point to befriend this person. Because not only do they have “Kitty” in their name, but they may in fact be an actual cat that has somehow managed to use their previously non-opposable thumbs to write smart ass remarks to poorly asked questions without ever actually providing any kind of answer, which is really what all cats would do, and basically how the entire book goes– which is also why I’m fairly convinced that Jenny Lawson herself is actually a taxidermy cat who managed to create the beautiful, broken wonder that is her life (that she so gratefully shares with us other weirdos) and that just makes me love her all the more.
I’d end by saying let’s pretend this never happened, but no amount of pretending will undo having read this in its entirety. For that I thank you, and I am
sorry , not sorry. Sorry.*
*I’m really not sorry…