Crap. Poop. Darn. [unintelligible muttering] And arse.
I'm under a lot of pressure. When I started this blog, I had me for a reader. Then I added Anne and She Who Defies Encapsulation in a Single Pseudonym. The Saint stopped by, and boldly refused to leave. Then Martin and Buster. I can't remember who came next, but you did. You kept coming. And for every person who stumbled in here and muttered 'What the hell kind of nonsense is this?' and kept on going, another one strolled in and stayed. Well, okay, maybe not 1:1. Maybe not even 10:1, but enough. Since the beginning of the year I've been averaging about 50 visitors per weekday. This week I'm up to nearly 100.
I'm not sure I'm up to it. What if I just can't, you know, deliver? I'm smart. I'm competent. I'm capable. My mother told me so, so it must be true. Right?
But I don't know. This might just be too much. People have expectations, you know?
Besides, there's only so much room in my head. What's wrong with me that I need to keep creating more and more imaginary people? Can somebody please psychoanalyse me? Can somebody please medicate me and make me all better. You know, make me normal...
Wait. Normal? I don't want to be normal. Who said anything about normal? I did. No, I didn't. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to be okay. I want to be strange and bizarre and incomprehensible. No, I don't. Yes, I do. Maybe. Who's head is this anyways? It's mine. It's mine. It's mine. How many of me are there? Just one. One. Twelve.
Okay, everybody, shut up!
I'm monologuing here!
Just hold your peace until all the nice, imaginary readers leave the room.
Sorry about that. [fusses with hair] Where was I? Right. Pressure... All of a sudden I have all these people who come here every day, or every week, or whenever they get bored. It's just a lot of responsibility.
Every day as I walk to work or sit on the horrible streetcar, I think about the fact that you're all waiting for me to turn on my computer and start with the funny. I think about all the stupid/trivial/entertaining/infuriating/happy/sad/boring events in my life and plan out how to write them as funny. Then I do it and I feel relieved and accomplished and proud.
But some days, like today for instance, I just can't think of anything to say. And then I panic. I mean, you all keep coming here, eagerly waiting for the funny. Only there's nothing. What if the well's run dry? What if there is no more? What if I just can't do it?
Okay. I'd go on, but I really have to go to the toilet.