I found an old Tumblr of mine called The Bedroom Pantry. It was a darling, sometimes cryptic, look into my life after high school. Previously I had kept private journals where I'd rank classmates' outfits, humor, and overall appeal, as well as manufactured my own magazines where I was the editor-in-chief and my friends were all celebrities. But Tumblr came along and I had a public platform to dramatically blog about college, first job, first solo apartment, being single... It was sweet and sincere and you know what, I would have dated myself.
I had another blog. I won't name it because I don't want you to search for it. It's too embarrassing. It's when I went through what I call a provocative (?) stage. I tried to write about topics that, at the time, sounded sexy. I think my dad found it and had a hard conversation with me.
My third blog was a collective called Sweats And The City. My girlfriends and I were bored and we wanted to talk about adulthood. Like crafting, bikini waxes, and dinner parties. You know, stuff people in the Money Diaries comment section would tear apart. I had fun but everyone stopped writing as their lives got more exciting.
Then I stopped writing all together. I'm now dating someone who is a writer by profession. So I picked up doodling instead.
But here I am. 29 and realizing I miss writing. I miss pretending I have a vast readership who thinks I'm hilarious. I miss rambling about the mundane shit that happens in my Jeopardy! at 7pm life. This isn't for you. This is for me.