Preemptive Retaliation

I used to be really good at blogging. Like I said before, I started my blog when I was fifteen and full of stories and thoughts. My childhood home had a conservatory that would overheat in summer and freeze in winter and I would sit there breathing mist or sweat, writing about the sandwich I was eating, of the thoughts I was thinking. I wrote in all caps when I was angry and used asterisk’s to show emotion. Christ, it’s like looking back at a photo album where your cool hair is hilariously out of date.

Those who are somewhat internet savvy might be able to find this lost relic of a blog. It’s still there. Every year I remind myself to let the address lapse back into the public domain, but every year I find myself procrastinating enough to let it carry on. I suppose the past still needs preserving in some way, even if I can’t bear to look at it.

I’m not very good at blogging anymore. I try though. There’s an entry in my drafts about my trip to Europe. I talk about how amazing Lisbon was, and how I fell in love with Barcelona all over again, but I didn’t finish it, and maybe I never will. Maybe one day I will.

Anyway, this has gone a bit off topic. I was supposed to apologise about my lack of blogging and then dive head first into the news, but I didn’t do that. I got hung up on blogging and the past, and now I can’t remember half of the gist of what I was going to say? It doesn’t matter much. This is what I was going to say;

I have a physical copy of my book. I have a big box of them. I’m actually holding one right now. It’s in my hand and it feels weird because I didn’t think this day would come? There are eighty thousand words in front of me, eighty thousand words that I picked and arranged into a story that was in my head, with people that never existed saying things that have never been said. Goddamn, this feels weird, and amazing..

And you can get one too, if you want. There’s a very limited print edition available to buy on this website. You can buy my book if you want.

Goddamn.