So you want to be a writer? Or at least a blogger...

Oh my.
It's been almost a year since I've updated my reader-less blog.

I keep being encouraged to write, because-- when I put my mind to it, I'm a pretty alright writer.
Okay, I'm a pain-free writer. Unless I'm talking about something awkward, people can usually digest my words pretty easily.
I'm like oatmeal... Pale, mushy, relatively odorless... Wait... Those are just physical ways I resemble oatmeal...
And oatmeal makes my tummy hurt.
My writing is like... I don't know. Imagine something you enjoy eating that doesn't usually affect your IBS. I'm like that.

I've decided to go the blog-route as opposed to the journal route for many reasons. If I'm writing for an audience (even if that audience is only perceived) my writing is better. My journals are sad diatribes about my weight, sprinkled with one-line sentences about what is going on in my life, aside from being overweight.
When I die, I don't think I want anyone to read my journals. They are too sad and boring for another person to endure. Although, lately I've been trying to be more encouraging to myself... But my encouragement is surely just as sad.

I also feel like writing more, because (imaginary blog readers: don't laugh) I kinda want to be a writer. Unfortunately, though, I don't think I could ever write a book (a fiction one anyway) because I don't like reading fiction. I like reading essays and memoirs. Preferably funny ones.
Am I secretly comparing myself to the likes of David Sedaris, Anne Lamott, and Mary Roach? Well, maybe.
Kind of like how you imagine what it will be like when Ellen has you on your show, or when you (finally) get that reality show.
I am definitely a better writer than Chelsea Handler, though, so... go me.

Could you imagine if you had a reality show? How awful would that show be? I mean, seriously. Mine would be incredibly boring. I'm just siting on the couch blogging in a dark living room. And the producers would have all of these ideas like, "go to a club!" or "climb a mountain!". But I'd be all like, "no". So it would be 20 minutes (13 if it airs on MTV) of me making cat noises, yelling angrily at inanimate objects, and playing Candy Crush. And the footage would inevitably reveal my habit of leaving empty Diet Coke bottles on the floor of my room, and my lack of motivation to ever put my pants in the hamper.
Sorry guys. I didn't mean for this blog to get to depressing so quickly.

And here's a picture, because I realize that people only like to read blogs with pictures.

Pictured: My cat and my face. My cat suffers from BRF (bitchy resting face) so she looks way less excited than she actually was. And I generally look more insane than I did in that picture. What can I say? It was a good day for me face-wise.