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.
department of speculation 
She hopes the writer will keep it up. She also hopes the writer won’t change too much because she loves these posts. She knows that if she could write like this blogger she wouldn’t change a thing. She knows from experience that fitting into clothes is over-rated.
She wishes to acknowledge your wisdom and kindness but has only an emoticon at her disposal. She insists you have it.. 🙂 !!! (just for you)
Gosh, Tenderness, once should never shout into the void, let alone listen back for an answer. The smoke and mirrors of social media are not for the thoughtful. It’s all tricks, I tell you, the depths of which would render the world’s smallest oil tank dipstick redundant. If you’re still feeling particularly existential, e-mail me and I’ll tell you what I truly think about popularity plans. Some are distasteful. Some are not. All are dishonest. That’s bytes for you.
Too right, Tara, too right. Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference between an existential crisis and the effects of sugar withdrawal. I find the symptoms are very similar. I’ll email you if all gets too much. 🙂
Ah, the old existential dilemma….I eat buns therefore I am…or am I the bun eaten?
Don’t you flippin’ dare give up on the blogging – who else am I going to talk to?? And who else is going to come right back at me with cutting one-liners?? Anyway I like you. You’re probably my favourite person round these parts. *Goes very red and runs away*
C’mere to me birdie *squishy hug* Eh sorry *awkwardly scratches back of head* Oh yeah! you reminded me of my favourite jokes… Descartes walks in to a bar. Barman says, “drink, sir?” Descartes replies “I think not” and puff! he disappeared.
*scratches head* I don’t get that joke….am I overthinking it??? 😀 Don’t want to give you another Withnail moment. “ouch” Damn that jaggy tumbleweed.
It’s one of those told with a self-satisfying degree of pretentiousness. Must folk who tell it started out by saying Des..who? Then they’re smug as fuck. Until they risk being steamrollered by a tumbl…arrrrrrgh *sprawled flat across the road*
If you stop blogging, it’ll signal the end of civilisation. Don’t do it to humanity, won’t someone please think of the children etc. *stuffs handful of bickies into gob and opens button on shorts – yes shorts, it’s still 4,000 effing degrees here*
Farking hell. Do they do winter there? at all? As in like, in and around 3,000 degrees? Will you ever get to wear woolly tights ever again? Is this too many questions?
Well yes because… ssh, I’m not supposed to out meself but we’re selling up and moving to sarf Brazil as soon as possible. They have actual seasons there. And chimneys in their houses. And windows made with glass. I know, I know, steady yer nerves. You heard it here first!
Brilliant, gurl. But I hope it won’t mean an end to tales of the clan-in-laws hehe.
I’ll have to stockpile some stories!
Late to this but she can’t go. I won’t have it!
I’ll swap you a ramble for a photo of a cheesecake. No-one has to know. Only us.
It’s a deal
The vat awaits…
He thinks the writer has a unique style and is gifted with humour and insight. He thinks she would be mad to stop, even though he himself, has stopped. For a bit, anyway, he thinks? He likes her style. “She should continue to write”, he whispers to himself while drinking tea and listening to Bowies “Lodger” LP.
She fears she is experiencing hallucinations and blinks rapidly at the screen. “Could it really be him,” she exclaims before demanding Morag to top up her gin. The memories of him are all she thought she had left. And now his ghost has returned to truly haunt her. The occasion calls for some tuc biscuits and a few marshmallows. “Quick, Morag”, she cries.