Like mariah carey in glitter

I'm discouraged with blogging just because the only people who haven't seemed to stop and take a break are the loathsome, despicable, politic bloggers. Why, cruel world, why? Just when I started to need the kind words of others, everyone gets hit with writer's block and posts the same "taking a break from blogging" paragraph. We all get it. You're tired, and you're bored. So am I! No, really! I'm bored of listening to myself think, but, hey! It's not the end of the world. And I would never be able to stop authoring this blog just because it's the only way I remain a writer at all. I haven't written any poetry in forever, and would you really like to know why?

Well, because everything I write is either spiteful and acidic, or about murder.

Nonetheless, I chug on through my atrocity and try to find some semblance of the old me at the end of the tunnel. I want to know what's going on. But you, Internet, what do you want? Do you really want to know what I had for lunch, or that I'm trying madly to assemble an indie-punk band, or that I sort of detest the new hipsters and people who are painfully hip and people who press that painful hipness upon everyone else and cast aspersions on anybody not as painfully hip as them. I want to wear what I like, but seeing as I sometimes like things that are in style, I can't ever afford the things I like. Blogging, how painfully hip! At least it's cheap.

Once school starts, my writing will go one of two ways. Posts will either trickle down to a lazy pace, or the floodgates will crash open and I'll have two months' worth of posts tagged with "high school," "FUCK," and "depression." Neither you nor I want that to happen.

Speaking of depression, (segue) I realize that I haven't said much about being depressed lately. That's because for the most part, I haven't been. But I've had to analyze myself quite a few times this summer, which led me to realize that there are certain things and people I feel so awkward about that I completely avoid them.

My mom often asks why I show such discomfort with talking to her about my depression, when I can write about it on the Internet without a second thought. Um, maybe because the Internet doesn't discourage psychiatric medication. And maybe because the Internet didn't push me out of its vagina. And maybe because the Internet has four million faceless users at any given moment, and there's probably only one person out of all of those users who actually reads this blog. So yeah, I'm more comfortable with dicking around on the Internet than I am having to pretend to know what's wrong with me. Because there's not really even anything wrong with me. The doctors have said this.

Anyway, tomorrow night I'm leaving to go stay at my grandma's house for the week and while it won't be terrible, it's probably going to be boring when there's nothing going on. I had to buy a new dress and shoes for my great-grandma's funeral, and I still have to pack up my cat along with all my clothes for the week. In the same pillowcase. Because that's how I transport my feline.

So anyway this post has probably been a real show to everyone in the blogosphere that blogging should not continue. I apologize, and I hope to see you at BlogHer. I'm kidding, I would never have the money or popularity to go to BlogHer. But you should totally nominate Dharma Monsters for a Bloggie.