Holy Shitknuckles, It's My Masonic Apron's 800th Blogday

As John Hiatt once dolefully sang, “What do we do now?”

Here we are—you and I. Eight hundred posts.

Eight-hunny. Honey.

Some of them have been ricockulous, some of them have been tender and some sad. Some posts have probably made you question whether or not I am on hallucinogenic additives, and some may have made you wish that we could go out for coffee sometime.

I take a lot of sugar, by the way-- more than is socially appropriate. But, you already knew that.

I didn’t understand blogging when I started blogging. I don’t really understand it now, either, but I’m reasonably comfortable with what I do. If there is a certain skill involved in blogging, I’m pretty sure I don’t have it. If there’s a technique or a rationale or a goal, I’ll content myself with being appropriately mystified. After three-or-so years behind the monitor, where I’m most cozy, I find that plopping down in my chair and banging out a post, or three, is as much a part of my routine as any other part of my routine. And, in that respect, I like it.

Do I actually like… blogging? The actual physical and mental aspect of writing? I don’t know. That’s kind of like asking me if I like coffee. Clearly, anybody who puts as much sugar into a 16 ounce tumbler of coffee as I do probably doesn’t like coffee very much, but, if I go three days without it, I’d probably have to be hospitalized.

In my counseling session on Tuesday, my therapist recommended that we set up an end-date for our work together, as it’s his feeling that a little structure might appeal to my desire for, well, structure. I reacted skittishly to this proposition because, viscerally, it felt like abandonment, and I’m just starting to feel comfortable with the blazer-wearing guy. Why set up some arbitrary-feeling time to stop what we’re doing? But I get it. He’s giving me tools that I’m to apply outside of his presence. That’s kind of the whole point.

“After all,” he asked, “what is your vision of what ‘the end’ for us will look like? What will our work being ‘done’ look and feel like to you?”

And I, of course, had no answer. And I think the same holds true for this blog. At least, it may.

One day, I’ll get it into my hamsteresque mind to quit blogging—I’ve already hinted that 1,000 might be a good place to give the keyboard a little rest, and maybe fondle the banjo a little bit more.

(That’s not a euphemism, by the way.)

But I don’t know exactly what that’s going to do for me. Will it force me to “get serious” about blogging, to increase my rate of navel-gazing and focus less on entertainment or writing for an audience? God, that would be dreadful for you, and I wouldn’t do it to you. You can only take so much of that shit, I can imagine. Will I come to some sort of realization, at the point when I’m ready to stop, that I won’t lose my identity as one who writes (I can’t call myself a writer—I just can’t do it) or that the ability to connect with people on a funny or satirical or sardonic or emotional level won’t just go away? Will I be able to accept myself as who I really am, and not as Mr. Apron?

Or will I just… stop?

Back in the summertime, I stopped blogging for a little bit because I was looking for work and not finding it and I was beginning to unsuccessfully wrestle with the guilt demon that was habitually telling me that I was being selfish and vain and potentially disastrous to myself and my wife if I didn’t shitcan the blog in favor of looking for work, constantly. That was probably immature of me, and a bit foolish, because I was, in fact, depriving myself of a pleasure, albeit a small one, at a time when I needed all the pleasure I could reasonably get for under $19.95+s/h.

But I did it because I thought I needed to do it. And, look, Ma. We still made it to 800 posts. Give me a hug.

Life’s funny, you know? I used to write because I loved seeing my name underneath the masthead or the title of something I’d written. Back in middle school, I developed the habit of including my middle initial when writing my name on work I’d written because it made my name look more important. Now, I write every day and my name is nowhere to be found, with or without the middle initial.

Oh, life. I love you.