recently mike came down to philly, and i, being excited about a recent post, asked him hastily: didyaseethepostwhad’yathinkdidyalikeit?

so i’m actually a little embarrassed about this.

first of all i feel like, it’s MY blog. i don’t NEED approval.

secondly, i am not sure i’m that keen asking my husband for his approval on things.**

third, i’ve been self conscious about my own writing pretty much my entire life, like to the point where i would turn in entire papers in (eeks) college, without looking at it more than once (imagine that! i was self conscious even of my own criticism!). and now, against all logic, i’ve chosen to express myself in words on the internet, WHERE THINGS DON’T GO AWAY.

now back to the question (modified for an up-tick in classy-ness): “mike, did you take pleasure in reading my most recent piece of internet literature?”

(changed back to more-or-less the real conversation because well, i can’t keep up with the up-tick, and, well, it wasn’t that classy) “well, i did enjoy the topic of the post.”

“but did you enjoy the POST?”

“i think that the writing was a bit confusing.”

“more so than my other posts?”

“i feel this way about fifty percent of the time about your blog.”

“YOU DON’T LIKE MY BLOG FIFTY PERCENT OF THE TIME?!?” (yeah, i get that this is an overreaction. that’s what i do.)

“i love the subject matter 100% of the time. but the writing, only about fifty percent.”

well.

after taking several (more than two or three, less than many) deep breaths, i then got to thinking. back to my three points from above:

1. i DO care what people think about MY blog. i do. i do, even though i don’t want to. i do.

2. i especially care what MIKE thinks about my blog. i married this person because i find him wonderful. brilliant. sincere. (and brutally honest.) and in return i’d like for him to find me brilliant, witty, and charming 100, not 50, percent of the time.

3. with this blog, i feel that i’ve actually found my voice. my voice happens to have all lower case letters, interspersed with OWEN MEANY EXAGGERATED EXCLAMATIONS, constantly interrupted with parenthetical comments (making sentences, well, extremely [titular]), and chock-filled with tangential (and not-so) asides.

so what i’m hearing is….my voice…doesn’t make sense.

sorry readers!

so have i got a deal for you. although pride is hard for me to swallow, i’m going to compromise a bit here. i’ll try to be a bit more clear when i write on this here contraption (INTERNET!), just for the sake of people coming back to read this thing every so often. and in exchange, i’ll ask you to humor me. if the writing doesn’t make sense, be kind. from time to time i’m still going to use this as my little pink diary with a gold heart lock on the front; the one i had when i was nine and wrote in on, and on, and ON about how i thought i’d NEVER get a boyfriend. sometimes i’ve just got to ramble.

ps. this post, more than others i’ve written, feels a bit vulnerable and raw, and because of this i’m not putting up the option for comments. totally typical of someone who gets nervous about having other people read her writing, right? well i can’t keep you on your toes 100% of the time, folks. sometimes i am just going to be that predictable.

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**obviously this language sounds a bit harsh. this has NOTHING to do with mike (hi mike! i love you!), or being married,  but does somehow have everything to do with every woman’s studies class i’ve ever taken. i don’t know. i guess it’s a hard feeling to explain.

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