A few days ago I came to the terrifying realization that this will be my last full holiday season at home, so I’m making it the most X-TREME holiday season anyone has ever experienced anywhere. If I go a day without hearing Justin Bieber’s unfortunately catchy “Mistletoe,” I swear on sweet baby Jesus’ manger someone’s gon git whacked with a yule log even though I have no idea what a yule log is.
My first holiday-related mission (which I placed before all my other missions), was to decorate my mini-tree. Last year I labeled myself “too busy” to hang up a few ornaments. BUT NOT THIS YEAR. My mom even offered to buy me a new set of decorations, which I found more exciting than perhaps I should have. So after narrowly escaping the clutches of that guy who wanted to “trim my tree”, I got to work with all the gusto I could muster.
There’s me and my naked tree in its naked corner. Even though everything else there is naked, I can assure you that I’m fully clothed behind all those branches.
And then there’s me in the crowded corner where I actually decorated the tree. I only had two episodes left of Death Note and was not willing to sacrifice my nightly anime marathon, so I attempted to have my cake and eat it, too. Since I couldn’t see my computer from the tree’s regular habitat, I moved the tree. If that’s not practicality at it’s finest, I don’t know what is.
Forty-five minutes and one tear fest later (Death Note was just too good to ever end), I had myself a purdy, methodically-decorated tree. I chose the rainbow ornament set, so I had to make sure certain colors weren’t too concentrated in certain areas. ‘Twas enough to give someone a headache. But I had grape juice and the warmth of a cuddly puppy on my side, so I survived.
It was midnight and I felt like being an artistic little bitch, so I took about eighty pictures like this, all of which turned out blurry.
And then I went to sleep and my lonely Christmas party was over.
Right now, I feel a bit like one of those men who start up secret, second families. Flamora, of course, is my trusty old wife. You guys…well, you guys are my children with said old wife. Now before you start shouting, “BUT GABI I’M THREE YEARS OLDER THAN YOU I CAN’T BE YOUR CHILD,” remember that this is all hypothetical or metaphorical or whatever. So, moving on, I recently met my mistress, that harlot by the name of Tumblr. With her came new children – new readers, new friends, new fans. Because of her, I’ve forgotten good ol’ Flamora. I’ve forgotten you. I’ve forgotten everything about this site.
What a shame.
Tumblr is just so much more conducive to my blogging needs. Something about traditional blogging is too formulaic, too formal, even. On Tumblr, I feel like I could spill out all my idiotic thoughts right as they come to me. With this blog, I feel like my posts need structure. They need length and a singular purpose. I can’t post four sentence entries about that new can of whip cream my mom bought or my affinity for watered down drinks or my theories on blue jeans here. I mean, I suppose I can. As far as I know, there isn’t a WordPress blog police that would send me to the stocks if I did. But just in case there is, I’m not taking any chances.
Then, of course, there’s that whole commenting thing. I get so caught up in trying to return every single comment that they build up and then I just don’t return any of them. On Tumblr, there really aren’t comments. I could reply to people whenever the fart I have time…and whenever they say something that genuinely interests me. Let’s face it, not everyone posts jewels all the time. Like when people start talking about emotions…I do what I can to stand clear.
Still, I miss this blog. I’m just having a hard time remembering it exists. Can one of you just cyber pinch me when it’s been more than a week since my last blog? I mean, it’s not like I don’t have the time. I just…forget.
Sorry. No data so far.
