I am a writer. Or at least, that’s what my graduate diploma from The New School says. I’m supposed to write every day. And not just those Tumblr roleplays with my friends. Actual writing. Essays, short stories, god forbid a journal. Or maybe a blog.
I do none of these, opting for nights after work on my yoga mat and then on my couch, watching YouTube videos until I accidentally drift off around 9:00pm only to wake three hours later a sweaty, panicked mess, as if I’m shocked when I do the same thing each night.
Consistent blogging and social media posting have always been elusive to me. Optimistic and inspired, I’ve started this blog over time and time again, renewing my domain every year with the hopes that this would be the year, this would finally be the point in my life when I have my shit together enough that I’ll write every day, post every week. To what endgame, I don’t know. What’s the goal? Internet fame? Attention? For one person to glean something about me and my life, my struggles as a privileged white, queer, vaguely genderqueer human with an overgrown undercut and crippling social anxiety?