I don’t remember writing this.
Disclaimer: I woke up on Friday with a sore throat. Yesterday it turned into a full-blown winter cold, so I spent most of the day hopped up on DayQuil and Mucinex. I also have a vague memory of drowning myself in copious amount of peppermint tea with honey. At some point, I wrote this blog. What follows is unsanctioned, unedited, and very probably un-sane.
I don’t know what I would do without tampons. I mean, have you ever really thought of that? Forget modern medicine, television, the internet, all that BULLSHIT. THEY DIDNT FUCKING HAVE TAMPONS IN 1811. Maybe like, a rudimentary pad? You probably had to wash it every time you wanted to reuse it too. Jesus I would have died.
I woulda died from this triflin cold too because fuck having a cold without god’s gift to humankind: DayQuil. And moreover, some goddamn NyQuil. Bless you, whoever gave that unto the world. I hope you have a Merry Christmas, I really fucking do.
Maybe I wouldn’t have died tho. I mean, pleaze, if Marianne survived walking to Combe Magna in the pouring rain and also a sprained ankle in the pouring rain, then I can survive this triflin fuckin cold.
But the not being able to breathe? Now THAT is a goddamn problem. I wonder if tracheotomies were a thing in 1811? Can I just please bypass my sinuses entirely? We have a mutual hate-hate relationship at the moment.
I am also starting to wonder if there’s anything to being bled. (This is how I KNOW I’m high on cold meds right now, by the way. When you start dreaming about fantastically improbable ways to cure yourself.) I remember seeing this weird-ass cutting tool once that like, chopped up your arm and they used it to bleed people. It was dooooooope. And terrifying. But mostly dope.
Whatever. For a society not blessed with the benefits of actually-helpful medicine or doctors, they sure did like long cold walks in the rain. Maybe it’s how they kept the population down, idk. I have a feeling that in 200 years they’re gonna say the same about us. (“Can you just IMAGINE? They treated cancer by basically injecting people with POISON. How barbaric!”)
Oooooh the Christmas lights just came on outside. That’s nice.
I don’t think I’m getting anything for Christmas this year. And at 29, that shouldn’t bug me, but the 9-year-old in me really wants one of those hover boards and the 19-year-old would really love a new book or two and goddammit, let’s be honest: the 29-year-old just wants some goddamn bath bombs. Someone please send me a bath bomb 😭
Oh Jesus fuck I just felt snot drip down my nose.
The older I get the more I understand how Dumbledore saw himself holding some nice woolen socks in the mirror of Erised.
I wonder what Elinor Dashwood would want in the mirror? Maybe just like… some more money for her fam? How fucking selfless. Goddamit Elinor, why do you have to be so PERFECT ALL THE TIME? NONE OF US CAN LIVE UP TO YOU. YOU’RE NOT EVEN REAL, BITCH.
Whoa, that got real dark real fast. Sorry.
Actually I’m not. Fuck being perfect all the time. You do you boo. None of us are perfect. And that’s the real fuckin truth.
This is what y’all come here for ain’t it? Truth bombs and F-bombs. I bet Marianne woulda said “fuck.” Margaret too. Elinor is cool and all but I’d get fuckin drunk with Margaret Dashwood, yo.
God I fucking love saying “fuck.” (If that wasn’t obvious.) It’s just so perfect for everything. It can be a noun, a verb, an adjective, an intensifier… so fucking versatile. I almost got hit by a car on my bike yesterday and I let out a string of “fuck”s and “fuck you”s and “go fuck yourself” that would have made you blush. (Mad props to my time spent in Boston for that particular skill.) Pretty sure I heard someone behind me on the street laughing as I rode away…
Whoa I am really fucking off topic. What was I even talking about.
it is super hard to concentrate right now. I still have another 9 days to go, too. Y’all need to be FED. Its some real please sir may I have some more, shit. But like… NO OLIVER. YOU HAVE HAD ENOUGH. It’s hard being a never-ending content machine *whinewhinewhine* but I literally compared the likes to applause today so I think I’m legitimately too far down the rabbit hole to care anymore.
In related news, please read that recent New Yorker piece about Bo Burnham if you get the chance. It’s doooooope. Too real. Too much. No, if you got a Google alert out of your name, and you see this: I KNOW 🙌🏻
Look, if I’ve learned anything from dealing with the content appetite of 60,000+ people for the last 5 years, it’s that YOU ARE ENOUGH. Like… everyone is just trying to do the best they can. Famous people. Me. You. That dude on the street corner asking for money. You don’t need mad amounts of people to tell you that you matter, trust me. You just need to believe it when one person does. (I’m pretty sure this what they mean when they say fame is fleeting. Cause that approval don’t last. It’s like a sugar high.)
Y’all just… please fucking believe it. and even if you feel like no one is ever gonna get you or what you do… dude I felt the same and then like… 60k of you showed up on our doorstep and y’all laugh at my dumb jokes. If I can find it you can. Jesus I sound like a self-help tape.
To be fair, it took 5 years to get to 60k, but my point stands. Your tribe is OUUUUT THEREEEEEE. You just gotta find them. I think that’s what makes me sad about Jane Austen. She had her sister but… her tribe didn’t come along until too much later. I think she woulda liked y’all.
Dude, also, I literally still have anxiety n shit about the stuff I post ALL. THE. FUCKING. TIME. I can’t even imagine putting my heart and soul into a book or a movie and then just like… letting it out into the world. (Is that what having a kid feels like??? That is terrifying. At least my shit doesn’t breathe and eat and need it’s own acceptance.) Just even with like, these fucking blogs I’m constantly thinking are people gonna like it? Are people gonna share it? What are the comments gonna be? I fuckin watch it all like a hawk. It’s probably unhealthy, tbh. But like… maybe Millennials real underlying problem is that we figured out how to quantify love and acceptance. Maybe that’s why we like Austen so much. That shit seems so easy compared to our lives now.
This is getting fucking deeeeep. I think I need more NyQuil. Or maybe less? No, definitely more.
I hear someone talking.
fuck I forgot what I was gonna say.
…I hope you like this.
Aaaaaaand it ends there. Now please excuse me, I need a nap. And possibly an Ativan.