I had been bitching to friends about writing. My writing had literally ground to a halt, and I was frustrated. I wrote scarcely anything in my journal, and I felt empty. I had just taken on a part-time job at a candy store along Michigan Avenue's Magnificent Mile, the worst job I'd ever had. I was filled with frustrations about my crumpled professional life. I had been dating my girlfriend for seven months and wondered if she could tolerate an underemployed grouch for much longer. I needed an outlet.
My friend Kevin suggested I start up a blog. He knew of this company that was starting up a new blog program, a program where I didn't have to whip up a web page and doodle with HTML or Perl or whatnot, so I dove in five years ago this very day.
Blogging. Weblog. Yet another method of kvetching, except now you can kvetch over thousands of miles, over every continent. It's amazing what technology can contribute to the art of bitching. I love it. Blogging had been around for a few years before I dropped my first entry, but it's a hell of a lot bigger now. People have gotten fat book contracts based on their blogs. That's pretty impressive too.
Five years ago.
When you're young, time seems to go on forever. When you're, say, five years old, a year takes up twenty percent of your life. When you're fifty years old, it only takes up two percent, and seasons fly by like startled pigeons. I'm nowhere near five or fifty years old, so instead of the years zooming or crawling, they seem to do both. September 2003 feels like a zillion years ago, yet the road from then to the present feels like a trip of only a few weeks. I cannot understand the paradox any more than I can understand how many angels can fit on the point of a needle, or if there are angels in the first place.
September 2003. My father, 52 years old, was watching TV in his basement apartment, probably checking out the nice pair of breasts on the female Telemundo anchor, inhaling the acrid smoke of a Marlboro into his lungs, where a group of rogue cells that would kill him within two years was just being born.
September 2003. It was less than two years since my suicide attempt; I was trying out different antidepressants, living in a cramped but cozy studio apartment, occasionally walking down to the Long Room for a gin & tonic or picking up a cheap pizza from the Papa Romeo's around the corner.
September 2003: The Wife was The Girlfriend. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I was apparently a decent catch for this adorable vixen. The fact she stuck it out with me during the down times is a testament to her total awesomeness.
September 2003: Not only was I working at a candy store, but I was constantly filling out additional applications to find additional part-time jobs. During that month, I worked no fewer than four jobs, one of which I worked three days and the other I worked four hours. It would be another few months before I finally found the full-time bookstore gig that would sustain me for the next four and a half years.
So many zillions of years ago. Most of my friends didn't have one baby, let alone two. I had just plucked from my sideburns my first gray hairs. Now when I grow out my goatee, the red highlights are likewise gray. My body aches more, I find myself squinting more often. I'm definitely hitting the middle age era of my life. Some friends have moved away, others I've moved closer to. Life is far from great, but it's fairly good. I have a fantastic wife, two crazy cats, and many, many friends. I can't complain, but I will anyway. After all, that's what my blog is for.
