There’s no crying in baseball!!!

I have a confession to make: blogging is sort of stressful. (No, really.)

Perhaps, you are sitting there and shouting at your screen, “Why that shan’t be true! What malarkey! Take her away, Bisbee!”

Of course, I see your point. What can be so hard about tapping on a keyboard about b.s. whilst eating hummus and carrots and drooling on yourself?

Well, I’ll tell you what can be so hard-and though I know you might not what to believe it- it’s tough work in this corner of town called “trying to be funny and witty via the written blog word 24/7.” Yep, it’s a cruel, cruel world out here in blogland. And not only cruel, but depressing to boot; depressing because ladies and gentleman (breaking news flash) blogging is sort….of….a…waste of time.

Or at least sometimes it seems this way.

Now, if I was a full-time blogger I probably wouldn’t feel like this, but I’m not, and thus the whole upkeep thing has become kind of insane. (And yes, I realize how lame that sentence was.) I don’t write while I’m at work, and when I’m not at work I want to spend time with my psychotic friends, or I want to read a classic book like People’s Child Stars of the ‘80s: Where Are They Now?, or I want to go for a walk, or do something. I’m whining aren’t I? Yeah. Sorry about that. I’ll stop. Because I like writing. I do. So overall this whole thing is just good fun. But. It’s just that there isn’t much of an endpoint, you know? And things without endpoints, otherwise known as endless death pits, are never really that fun to stare down into after awhile. Cyber-space is scary like Tyra is. It can eat you alive.

But back to whining.

Two of my girlfriends from college started their own blog. It’s doing horribly. Much worse than mine. (Click here and compare our hits; they’re pathetic, those two.) And I mean, it’s not like hits mean everything. As Shakespeare himself once said: it’s not the size of the boat Hamlet. After all, you have motion in your ocean.

YEAH RIGHT WILL.

Because it is sort of the size of the cyber boat. Kathleen, one of the bloggers of sixwords (and my idol for many reasons, including: a) her shiny, perfect hair and b) her sassy political musings), has told me that if I want to increase my hit size, what I need to do is tag my posts with weird things, such as, “Mariah carey’s boobs.” (Apparently, people google that more often than “drunk stupid high school friends” or “my mom is driving me crazy and I’m not sure what to do with my life and I just spilled V8 juice all over the kitchen; Fack!” But hey, advice is advice, so I will tag this post with “Miley Cyrus’s boobs” and the “New Yorker cartoon.”)

But of course, doing so makes no actual sense. I’m pretty sure dudes who want to look at Miley’s chest don’t want to read about my life (no offense to them; I too enjoy MC and her bf Leslie), nor do the people who enjoy savoring every little detail of this election’s horse-race coverage. (Sometimes watching the news makes me want to neigh and eat oats.)  But granted, I want to do writing about Gwyneth and Hillary C. sometimes too-and I do. But the blogging world is cut-throat. Something, like, one biiiiilion blogs get started everyday. That means you better not sleep if you think you are going to go places in cyberspaces. And you also have to be FA-resh, and be fresh all the time.

So me writing that Coco Arquette is a tranny baby is not cutting it. Hits come about only when you are tapping away about the hottest shit in the toilet-Ew. I can’t believe I just typed that. Good God-and the hottest shit in the toilet is always changing. It’s whose dead today, and whose breaking up in the next fifteen minutes and what did McCain say to Malia’s nanny at the mortgage crisis food prices gas barrel Knox Jolie-Pitt Hogan explosion extravaganza. It never stops.

So if you’re writing snarky/overly gushy things about stupid celebrities (or stupid politicians), that means you gotta compete with what’s already out there in that arena, and what’s out there for celebs is this teeny tiny website called dlisted.com. Now, I don’t know who Mr. Dlisted.com is, but he’s the funniest motherfucka alive when it comes to writing about celebrities. Hence his, ahem, mild popularity. (He’s also a full-time blogger; CHEATER.) Me saying that Kate Hudson is hot–but also a uge tranny slut who made Owen Wilson go bonkers and thus should be quarantined–isn’t going to get me a full time job. (I believe you economists call this sort of thing a monopoly? Forget Exxon Mobile. WE MUST TRUST BUST D-List!!!)

Then there is the whole idea of blogging about sports: When I wrote about the Celtics, I got more hits than I ever have since (apparently, other people are also obsessed with KG and his elusive smokeshow wife). Occasionally, I think about writing more about sports, because I do follow Boston teams, and all of this Brett Favre being soooo indecisive, and hell yeah I love the Olympics. (Oh, and did I mention getting hits makes crack-head bloggers like me feel good?) But if I want to read commentary on sports, I’d check out Bill S and plenty of other professionals first. I would have a loooot to catch up on if I wanted to continue down that path. This one time, in 7th grade I was at a Sox game and Jose Offerman…..

So.
That leaves me with um, my life, and my really weird thoughts.
The abyss returns.

Thus, what I am trying to make myself believe is that writing–no matter in what form–is sort of like exercising. You build muscle over time. You take the stairs and not the elevator. You put up with the Olestra. Maybe this is the equivalent of doing sit-ups as you watch bad reality TV, but….this is what I tell myself anyway: I will blog for a few more weeks or months, and then this will disintegrate, and then?… I don’t know. I’ll write somewhere else, about something else; something that will move me forward, something that’s a bit more….real? Substantial? Not only floating about in da HTML? Negative Nancy would probably say that blogs don’t turn people into writers; actually writing turns people into writers. But bitch needs to take a chill pill. As an optimist myself, I prefer not to see this blog as a waste. (Fairly certain I am being openly schizophrenic right now.) Really though, all the brainstorming I’ve done here-in between posting Seinfeld clips and Jackie O photos-has led me to start some more substantial “essay-ish” pieces about such meaty topics like “dating post-college,”; clearly Pulitzers are given out on the daily for that shit. There must be hope for us lame bloggers out there. (Christian did it, and so can we!)

*Bonus possible dating essay teaser question!: Should one ever start seeing a poet that they meet one night at 3a.m. in a pizza shop next to a bar frequented by men and women straight out of the “Nooo you aaaaaah” Denise and Sully SNL skit?

 

The answer is no. I did. Chaos ensued. 

 

Eharmony anyone?