He reckons she could just continue doing it and post whenever she feels like it. Take a break for a while. No biggie. It shouldn’t be something she feels pressurised by. This is in response to her mentioning she was thinking of packing it in. If the tagging stats for the year were presented according to her state of mind, it would likely be 80 per cent restless, 20 per cent bitter. No, make that 70 – 30. OK, 60 – 40. Wait! 60 – 30, 10 per cent hungry. Either way, all disgruntlement appears to be pointing towards the sign for get up off your arse. He’s stopped listening by this stage having retreated to twitter to dissect the final score with the brotherhood of football. She can’t bear to think what he’s posting after the carnage she witnessed last week. It was all very well taking him for better or worse, but those emoticons have to go. An image of a pair of thumbs lingers like a nasty flashback of the final scene from Carrie featuring The Fonz.
She’s not convinced he’s right. Why change the habit of a lifetime. Even if he was, she wouldn’t admit it that readily. She might casually mention it in a few days maybe; make it look like a random act of kindness. But he’s probably wrong. As much as she has always loved the sound of her own voice, the echo doesn’t answer back with the same agreeable ease. The other week she shouted Onob! and instead of it gleefully ricocheting off all corners of the screen, she heard a faint sigh of exasperation. The unmistakable cry of “Get over yourself” followed when she hit send on a poll post. “Take the fucking bun!!!! You’ll enjoy it more!!!!!”. Something has come undone. She would never use that many exclamation marks. Ever.
She’s hopeful she can turn things around but realises some blogging lifestyle changes are required as a matter of urgency. Embracing her existential crisis as a choice, no….a journey, could help mix it up. She’s already feeling an ancient Chinese proverb coming on. Morag, hit the mood lighting there, and down with the sunrise backdrop…
When sleeping women awake
Mountains will move
She tries to think of herself as more of a molehill. Or a grassy knoll. Then attempts to float into space. A space where she is free to externalise her life goals, to chart her progress. To guard her dreams and visions. This includes fitting into at least one item of clothing she possesses that might be fit for photography. Concentrating now..breathing in..and ..eh…breathing out…mastering the basics there.
Ten minutes later one eye is cocked open. It’s no good. She can’t concentrate. The music reminds her of getting her lip waxed and trying to sneak back to the car before she bumps into someone. Or worse still – someone she knows. She goes to the bathroom and is inspired to make another change. More photos would add to the variety and lighten things. Help colour in her personality. An opportunity to share her surroundings. OK, here goes:
The Our bathroom
Our? Oh no,
I she worries she’ll never get these third person narratives together. What next? She needs to go shopping. But she hates shopping. And cooking. And inspirational quotes. The fucking tyranny of lifestyle, she thinks, before conceding (to herself) that he was indeed right. If there’s any life left in this old blogger, she’ll just have to ease up on it, and quit talking in the third person. Even if she sort of it enjoys it.