It took four posts for my grandma to find my last blog. That’s a record, even for her.
There’s no faster way to get someone out of bed in the morning than a notification saying that their grandma liked a Facebook picture of them and their cat in matching tin foil hats, that was promoting a link to their blog.
A picture they didn’t think she’d find as it was posted on their work Facebook page, which to the extent of their knowledge she didn’t know existed.
A blog they’d specifically asked their mom not to read (which upset her a lot more than they thought it would), and had already done the rounds and asked everyone not to give their grandma their website URL, as it has a link to said blog on it.
When I told my partner Michael that I thought it was time to start looking for a new URL, he got furious at me. You see, this isn’t the first time. It isn’t even the second. I’ve kind of made a habit out of jumping ship and abandoning websites the second someone who shares my last name finds them.
There was The Impatient Traveler, which I promptly stopped writing because people from church started following it. Also because my parents would call me whenever they read something questionable, like the post about crashing a motorcycle and getting my foot pinned under the bike in Phuket, Thailand. Whatever, I was wearing a helmet. If blogs wore outfits, this one would be braless with barefeet, cutoff shorts and a wrinkled top. It would also have dreadlocks, and a Sak Yant tattoo on its back (which probably would actually read “stupid tourist,” but it wouldn’t know).
There was Stuff She Says, which ended when Jan from work told me she liked the blog. Nothing good was going to come from work people reading my blog. I’d put it on my CV because I didn’t think they’d actually read it, and I had (a bunch of) space to fill. Also, my high school AP European History teacher commented with praise on a post I’d written about puberty in which I’d compared my naked body to Kermit the Frog. This blog would wear a maxi dress with Katherine Heigl’s face on it. Mainly because those are two things Michael can’t stand, and this blog was about writing what pleased me without thought for others. It would accessorize with oversized sunglasses, chunky jewelry and a denim jacket, because that is the maxi dress dress code, and I don’t want the blog to go to maxi dress jail.
There was Ella’s Little Secrets — I almost can’t even type that because it’s so cringey. And hard to believe, but the content was even cringier (if that’s possible). Don’t bother searching for it, it’s already been taken down to preserve whatever dignity I may have left (the answer is little, very, very little). I took that one down because nothing on it deserved to see the light of day, or the glow of a laptop screen if we’re being all 21st century about it. It would wear Elle Woods’ bunny costume from Legally Blonde. It would also think it was Elle Woods. It would also bend and snap.
There was She Goes A Traveling, an incredibly PC blog comprised of my most socially acceptable posts from other blogs that I used when applying for writing jobs (which I did, for a long time, and to a lot of, before in a moment of reckless entrepreneurship I decided that if no one else would hire me, I’d hire myself. To which it turns out, myself doesn’t pay very well.) I kept the blog private most of the time, and dusted it off whenever applications came around. This one would be clad in Aéropostale. Because anyone only ever wears Aéropostale to look bland and blend in.
See Ella Drink was the one my grandma found. I’m sure she enjoyed reading about that time in college sambuca ruined omelettes for me. And the paramedics got called, and my male flatmates showered me and watched over me through the night (on account of not wanting me to choke on my own sick, which is really quite sweet). It’s all terribly confusing and, well, entirely not meant for grandma. I also included a drink recipe with every post, and so many times I felt like just making the drink a shot of vodka. Like so often. I feel like that means something. The blog was most like Mary Lambert’s song “Secrets,” so it would rock mom jeans and cat earrings. Along with really, really comfortable underwear because at this stage in my life, that is crucial.
As for this blog, it doesn’t even wear clothes. It’s just a bunch of middle fingers. All fully erect and flipping.
In conclusion, the internet is pretty much just my bedroom floor, covered in cat hair and dirty clothes.