You [sic] Life is Not So Great came from the chaos of the internet twelve years ago. The way back of our online lives during that time was populated by blogs documenting the very best of beautiful existence. Curated clothes, crafts, families. It was the initial glossy cultivation of gorgeous realities. This would eventually give way to influencers, and algorithms, and curation of takes in pithy characters.
Those blogs, and what they evolved into, were and always have been fine. And aspirational.
I did not lead an aspirational life, but I had a desire to carve out a place on the web for my sad, fucked-up existence. The terrible jobs, the horrendous apartments, the pitiful meals, and the laissez-faire attitude toward my health, safety, and reputation. I have always had a deep and somewhat pitiful need to be witnessed and seen for who I am in whatever moment throughout the years. A brash and unruly (and obnoxious) teenager on Livejournal. A chaotic and depreciating young woman in my twenties on MySpace and Facebook. And, eventually, a threadbare blanket unraveling on a blog that was meant to be the antithesis of the ones popular over a decade ago.
Those blogs were informative, well-meaning, and money-generating. You Life was (and is) low-budget and sarcastic. Something about the ruthlessness of exhibition, and the humor in poor choices and unfortunate circumstances fed me and this blog for longer than even the original stream of blogs existed.
I pay for the url yearly even though I basically stopped writing in here ages ago. So, what am I doing keeping this?
Even during the absolute shittiest moments, You Life was a joyful outlet. After the MFA, the publications, and a handful of small press collections, the place that still brought me the most happiness in my writing life was right here. Even if I was documenting how I used my refrigerator for a garbage (for almost two years…eek, what a monument to mental illness), the writing nourished me. So, You Life remained.
With that longing in mind, I think I am going to start writing in this bizarre relic of the World Wide Web that I continue to pay for, year after year. I don’t know what I’ll write about, or how often, but the desire to reconnect to the enthusiasm that came with updating is stronger than the feelings of silliness about the vanity of self-exposure. It’s not even really like people read blogs that much anymore, which makes me feel safe about the cringey credo I’m penning right now. I still have a lot of VERY strong feelings about ravioli, and cooking, and cats, and essays to write about candy corn and the confusion that comes with watching only reality television for a month without stopping.
I’m going to take a nap while watching Fraiser. And then make a calendar of what to post. And I *might* even stick to that resolve and the timeline. And if it makes anyone feel better, I still have the leftovers of a lasagna I made from the Super Bowl (the one that takes place in February) rotting in the back of my fridge as I type this.