October 14, 2019

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October 14, 2019

Honestly, writing a novel is less daunting than launching a blog.

 

I don't have a fan base, so uh . . . it shouldn't be a big deal.

 

Right?

 

Do I dive into something thought-provoking like the potentiality that we exist in a virtual reality or something more personal like the antics of my cats?

 

 

Seriously, cats in the dryer. There could be a very tragic or hilarious story to accompany this photo of my genius cat, Zoelie. 

 

But no. I'm pretty sure no one gives a rip about my cat. And it's probably too soon into our relationship to begin a rant about virtual reality.

 

Yes, I'm speaking directly to you — the one person who is actually reading this.

 

Suddenly, the intimacy of this moment — just you and I — has added pressure to the task.

 

Crafting this turd of a post is worse than a first date, which by the way, I haven't had in a while. 

 

Why haven't I been on a date? Thanks for asking! 

 

Honestly, I'm lazy.

 

Yup. Apparently, dating requires hopping onto dating apps like Tinder, Match, Bumble, Hinge — the list is endless. Shimming up to a bar stool doesn't cut the mustard.

 

And based on the fact that I use, 'cut the mustard,' should give you some indication of what clueless generation I hail from. 

 

Hint: I'm not a millennial.

 

Though, I love millennials! That is no exaggeration. Bookmark this because I will loop back around with the reasons for said love.

 

Wait a minute. I think I've established the perfect topic for leaping into the blog world: dating.

 

It's the perfect frame to wrap all of my existential meanderings around, though not as useful for promoting my recently published, sci-fantasy novel.

 

Don't get too impressed with the publishing bit; it's self-published. I won't mislead you. I'll reserve all of my stretching-of-the-truth skills for writing dating profile blurbs or fixing ones my sneaky, albeit well-meaning, friend created on the sly.

 

Maybe she wanted someone to swap stories of disappointment or possibly some steamy tales. Whatever the motive, she not only created my profile, but entered my age as significantly younger. She has a list of idiotic reasons for doing this. It wouldn't be a big deal except you can't change it. You can hide your age . . . for a price, which I am unwilling to cough up. 

 

Besides, who the hell wants to have a dating profile that hides their age. That's as tell-tale as the folks who only post photos of a landscape or bodyparts.

 

I'm guessing all of those angles work, 'cause there are pa-lenty of them. 

 

I realize this blog is way longer (and unfocused) than it should be. So, if you're still reading, let me just say, I like you and your style. Maybe look me up on your favorite dating app. Clearly, we have something in common — aimless meanderings. 

 

Let's fast forward. 

 

Some unsuspecting guy (or girl, don't box me in with a label) takes the bait, and we plan to meet up.

 

As if that wasn't already a hyped-up moment, let's just turn it up a notch. Magically, I'm supposed to make myself look X years younger. 

 

Ugh.

 

But for the sake of fresh blogs for you, I will. I'll jump into the dating scene with a less than legit profile. 

 

I like you, and I'm desperate for something to blog about. But mostly, I like you. Wink. 

 

See, I can be charming. 

 

So, stay tuned if you like crash and burn stories. Maybe I'll surprise us both and soar from the dating rubble on tested wings.

 

Now, as promised, why I love millennials -- they fervently question, break, ignore, rewrite rules. 

 

Life will continue to unfold whether you question it or not. Make sure it's taking you someplace you want to go. Question everything . . . especially someone's age on a dating apps!

 

 

I'll leave it at that; this seems like a decent stopping point. 

 

Now go, do something useful before I call security. You've been loitering here far too long.

 

Ciao for now. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.”    ― Ernest Hemingway 

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