This is my second anniversary of running this blog. This is a short collection of how I felt when I found that out.
|First I didn't believe it.|
|Then I realized how wonderful a day it was!|
First, let me start this anniversary post the same way that most anniversaries begin: With an apology. I’m sorry that I haven’t been writing, as I always say to my grandmother and diary. But despite what my friends and family may tell you, I’m not constantly talking about nothing, and you need ideas to write down in order to… well, write things. I had several smaller ideas that didn’t seem to work as of late. Writing about the Bonus Army (which I may still do later) seemed too much like the paper I had to write for a real class, writing about going through a break up seemed whiny and malevolent, and nobody wants to read about being a waiter. That’s basically the only job people who write blogs have. That and law students. Speaking of law students, I didn’t write about the Bill of Rights because this guy already did it way better than I could have. And I haven't written about my recent internal conflict between Constitutional Constructionalism and Liberalism, because even I fell asleep halfway through that sentence.
So where does this leave us? I’m not sure. This blog turned two years old on the third, and I’m twelve days behind thanks to my heroin binges and compulsive fist-bumping of strangers. Last year, I shared several smaller excerpts in lieu of anything real to say, and I think it went over well, but that’s probably because I still have nothing to say, a year later. I think the fact that I had 44 posts in 2011 and 14 in 2012 shows more than I could say.
One thing I wonder, as an aspiring writer (guh, do I sound like that all the time?), is how Cosmopolitan Magazine “journalists” came to be. The type of person I aim this blog towards does not often pick up a Cosmo except to make fun of it, so we often overlook the sheer size of these things. Sure, they are legitimately 75% advertisements, but there are over 200 pages in any given edition. That’s a lot of pages about how to do terrible sexual things, written by an actual person. Although I’m sure some programmer can come up with an easy formula to create some of these articles. [Random number] ways to [Arouse/Turn On/Heat Up] your [Boyfriend/Sex life/Bedroom/Father-daughter relationship]. That would explain why the sex tips are so out of touch from actual events. Snap! PROGRAMMER BURN! Run mauryshow_oooh.wav!
But in all likelihood, people do the writing, creating a strange fork in the road. I only see Cosmo writers in two ways: Tragically beat down by the real world, or just loving everything about life. Let’s examine the former first.
To truly understand this writer, let’s call her Debbie, we need to travel back to college. Debbie was a wonderful woman, I’m sure, and she had a dream. She was going to CHANGE the WORLD through the power of words, and every stroke of her pen furthered her goal. Why the government was keeping the common woman down, why men are pigs, and the best way to shoot a semi-automatic carbine all flowed from this woman’s fingertips. Debbie was a complicated woman with opinions that she was going to share, and she went to college to get that journalism degree.
But after graduating with honors, Debbie was faced with the cruel truth: the world didn’t need her opinions. Nobody wanted to buy her writings for fear of alienating readers, so she slowly sanded off dream after dream. Compromise followed compromise. She hated everything that Cosmo stands for, but damnit, they were hiring, and she had to put food on the table. Now as she invents her fortieth synonym for “vagina,” she pounds her head on the table, wondering where her life went wrong, and just when her dreams had died.
Then there’s the other possibility. Clarissa, fond of explaining it all, had always loved Cosmo. She read all 110 Sex Tips To Hornify Any Guy, and pinned The Best Defense Mechanisms for Daddy Issues up on her bedroom wall. She buys every perfume and moisturizer, and decides Who Wore It Better. Obviously, when she goes to college, she has her goal in mind. Journalism classes are SO BORING and she has no need for the study of ethics in the press, but she is willing to put up with these troubles in order to reach the Hallowed Halls of Cosmopolitan Magazine.
She graduates (with her pink heels on) and immediately is hired by Cosmopolitan. Now she is the one sharing her best secrets about looking dumb to attract a guy, without looking TOO stupid. Every day is a wondrous event for her, and she gets to look at pictures of sex-lined male models for her job.
Whichever situation is truer for Cosmo writers, one thing is for sure: Debbie, from the bottom of her heart, hates Clarissa. She hates Clarissa from the tip of her Bump-It, down to her open-toed designer heels.
And those are the only two possible ways someone can become a Cosmo writer, in my mind. Yes, naturally this is just me being jealous that someone gets paid for my hobby. But I bet YOU didn’t read through an entire “50 Shades of Grey”-rip off in the back of a Cosmo, resisting the urge to tear the magazine apart.
Anyway, thank you to those people who still read this piece of garbage. This blog, not Cosmo. Thank you for sitting through two years of fluctuating productivity, changing themes (THIS BLOG IS ABOUT
POP CULTURE HISTORY THE
SIMPSONS MICK’S LIFE HISTORY AGAIN), and even a different title. I really
don’t believe I deserve any sort of the praise that I get (cough although I could always use more cough), because I’d be scribbling inane musings on walls instead of
a blog if this were to disappear. But be careful, ladies, because this blog is
about to enter its Terrible Twos! Pots and pans cabinet, here I come. Daddy
needs some attention. As always, I can be found on Twitter. Here is my favorite GIF.