Reasons I Suck so Hard at Blogging.

I suck at blogging.

I write with zero regularity because, you know, naps. I talk about dicks and sex and politics which is bound to alienate a good portion of readers. My social networking presence also leaves something to be desired, once again, naps.

But those aren't the reasons I'm never going to be considered a "good" blogger.

If you've read any of the "How to get Fuck Me Famous Blogging and Never Have to Make Another Cup of Coffee Ever Again" articles, then you probably know they suggest bloggers have a niche, something that ties all the nonsensical ramblings to a specific topic, i.e. motherhood, fashion, cats, etc.

But left out of that group are bloggers who talk about making coffee and watching TLC and porn (occasionally at the same time), which is too bad because I would corner that market. When it comes to tried-and-true blogging genres, I've got nothing to offer.

Dating Blogs: I don't bang random dudes. Not because I don't want to, but my boyfriend won't let me and that jerk knows the wifi password. My blog's not going to be like Sex and the City, where I talk about strapping on a pair of $600 stilts and having some rando I met at Whole Foods give me his half-assed version of a pelvic exam. Nope, just Matt playing Grand Theft Auto V and me trying to figure out the wifi password.

Mommy Blogs: I don't have a baby. Nor do I intend to any time in the near future. To be honest, I'm not ever sure if I can. My mom's uterus supposedly looks like uncooked Top Ramen or something, and I've been having unprotected sex for like a decade--and nothing. Thank God. Don't get me wrong, I like kids, but I'm pretty sure I'm unfit to have my own. Just the other day I bought a Nerf gun because I thought, "I'm gonna fuck with the dog." Anyway, if I did pop a couple little assholes out, my boyfriend would just end up raising them and they'd call me by my first name. It'd get confusing at parent/teacher conferences.

Wedding/Marriage Blogs: I'm gonna let y'all in on a little secret, I've been engaged since Myspace was a thing. When's our wedding date? We don't have one. Why? Because you have to plan that shit out. And pay for it! When Matt asked me to marry him I called him a bastard. That story isn't Pinterest appropriate. And I'm not a big fan of weddings. I like my last name. And white, come on, who am I trying to fool? Plus, all of my family consists of horrible drunks who hate each other, and I've made it 27 years without being featured on COPS, so why start now?

Fashion/Beauty Blogs: I'm not fashionable. I wear flip flops everyday. And most of my clothes are stretchy and have salsa stains on them. I already tricked a dude into loving me, what's the point of hoisting my tits up my shoulders on the regular? There is none. I like pajamas. Disgusting pajamas. My mom recently offered to buy me a pair of "flattering pjs", because she's concerned I'm never going to give her grandkids. So unless people want to read about how to rock the same pair of sweatpants for 10 straight days, I think I'm out of luck.

Other things I'm not good at/won't be writing about: DIY anything. Fuck Pinterest. I'm not making a wine bottle rack using yarn, empty toilet paper rolls and glitter. I've got TV to watch. Health and Wellness. I like cookies. A LOT. And I'm already in therapy trying to figure out how to not eat my feelings, and it's not going all that well.

I also don't live in NYC or LA. My life is not glamorous. I work at a coffee shop and wear an apron everyday. I don't always write that consistently. I'm not interesting and most of my day involves Netflix and my couch. But I love that people may care, even if it's just a little, about the bullshit I put on here.

So fuck all the blogging guidelines. I just want to write and make some of you weirdos laugh. That's it.

Oh, and maybe a couple nice pairs of pajamas, so my mom can get off my case.

Whoa! Shit Just Got Emotional, Y'all.

My best friend recently reminded me that it's been over a month since the last time I've blogged. To which I replied, “A month? No, I think it's only been about three weeks. Okay, maybe three and a half. Jesus, get off my ass.”

Or something like that.

I feel like these “Sorry I suck at blogging” apologies are becoming more frequent, and I wish I had a good excuse. Maybe something like “Sorry guys, can't talk about what's happening on 'My Strange Addiction' this week, because I'm Batman.” Or “I got a full-time job that doesn't require wearing a milk-stained apron.”

Neither of those are the case, though, unfortunately.

I seem to be going through something all bloggers deal with at some point. You start out fiery with schedules and infinite topics. You're commenting on everything and networking like a mother-fucking champ, and then the shine wears off. You get lazy. You start questioning yourself. Comparing yourself.

I sit down at my laptop and think “I'm sure as shit not The Bloggess. Hell, most people have only found my blog while searching for barista porn or asking Google how to sext.”

Proof.

But, I guess, such is life. Even things you love doing, don't always come easy. And you'll probably always question yourself. Wonder if you're good enough. If you're doing enough. If you're on the right path.

For anyone that doesn't know, I started blogging after realizing I didn't want to be a journalist. I was about a month away from graduation, which is the best time to figure out you don't want to do the thing you've spent the last four years preparing yourself to do. I was interning in public radio. Writing unbiased copy to be read on-air, and I was good at it. I had a very promising career in journalism, I was told. The same thing I had been told by the local newspaper I worked for, a few months prior.

But that didn't make my days go by any faster. I just wanted to write. I didn't want to dig up a story. I wanted to create a story. But I didn't think becoming a writer was feasible, so I decided to major in journalism. To me, it was the responsible choice.

Then I took a creative writing class, my last semester. I had avoided any form of non-journalistic writing, my entire college career. If I didn't take part in it, then I wouldn't want it. This is basically the same rationalization used by the Marcus Bachmanns of the World. I love my wife. I love my wife. I love my wife. Fuck! Ryan Gosling.

After the first class, I knew I had made a huge mistake. I should have been writing. I wanted to entertain people. I wanted to tell stories. I wanted to make people laugh. I skipped the rest of the day and cried in my car.

I know this seems overdramatic, and in a lot of ways, it is. But being someone who is obsessed with making the right decision, with having control, with having a clear path, realizing I was thoroughly unhappy with the choices I had made, left me feeling helpless. So I ignored it. Until I couldn't ignore it, roughly 30 days before I walked across a stage and accepted my makeshift diploma.

That's how this happened. My blog. I just thought I would write about work. And then a few people started reading. Then I learned how to network a bit, and a few more people started reading. I remember hitting 10 followers and losing my shit. Ten! Fucking 10 people chose to read some nonsense I've written.

It was the happiest I had been in a long time.

Then my expectations rose. The comparisons. The criticism. All the things that make doing something you love difficult.

I buckled.

I convinced myself that being a writer was not going to happen. That I wasn't tough enough. That I wasn't good enough.

I got in my own way.

Normally, I'm not a fan of overly personal posts. I figure no one actually gives a damn that I'm completely confused and have no clue what my next step is. But maybe you do. Maybe you feel the same way.

But whatever your opinion, this is here. A reminder to myself that while fallible, I can make the conscious decision to do what I love. To accept the confusion and the fear, because they are just as critical of characters in this journey as confidence and happiness. I will continually live with them all. And that's okay.

I just have to remember, that writing is what makes me happy. And even if that means the only person I'm writing for is myself, it's enough.

I'm enough.

We're enough.

I'll be back talking about weird shit in a couple days. Until then, my friends.