There and Back Again

I honestly can’t remember why I started this blog.

Looking back before writing this piece I’m almost shocked to recall my first post was about me coming second at the Cheerleading Worlds in 2016. I’m definitely shocked at how poorly I wrote it.

The cheerleading escapade recounts promptly subsided, however, and what ensues is a sporadic and infrequent collection of anecdotes and opinions about my life and the world around me, as well as a handful of stories about my brother and how Downs Syndrome can, indeed, be absolutely hilarious.

I never expected anyone to read my blog, but decided early on that I was going to publish everything I wrote in an attempt to keep me honest. The idea was that if there was a chance anyone and everyone in the world with willingness and wifi could read my works, I’d have more incentive to put effort into them.

This, clearly, did not translate into frequency. At the most casual of glances I estimate I wrote about twice a year for a few years, up until an abrupt stop about 3 years ago.

The issue wasn’t motivation or time – I have had nothing but an abundance of time my entire adult life, and the outpouring of support and commendation for my blog has actually been unsettlingly positive.

The issue was purpose.

Many years ago I was flittering around the edge of dating a girl, who by all accounts was lovely, attractive, and (most importantly and confoundingly) liked the cut of my jib. Despite all this, I just couldn’t bring myself to spend time with her.

She. Was. So. Dull!

I would never embellish my ability to soliloquise and I’m certainly not a modern day Wilde, but I’ve always supported my own capacity to converse with anyone and can drive a conversation through even the most awkward of pauses. Even so, I just could not get this girl to have a stimulating conversation with me.

My questions earned limited responses; her questions were non-existent. She had no stories, no view, no opinions on anything. She was a newborn baby in a 20-something year old exterior.

Talking to my mother, she asked me why it was so hard to go on a date with her, and my response still echoes with me now; “She doesn’t say much, because I don’t think she has much to say”.

The same rings true for my writing.

I never wrote for views, or for consistency, or for money.

I wrote only when I felt I had something to say; something within which, with any luck, other people would be able to find meaning, purpose, or a lesson. Mental health, relationships, the slow marching of time towards an inevitable death; all topics I’ve covered in which we can all, surely, find some shared experience.

Which brings us to the past three years.

For those I don’t keep in touch with any more, or for that solitary reader of mine from Madagascar (seriously, I have the analytics) you may not know that I’ve been living in the glorious U.S of A until I returned home 5 weeks ago. I moved there Jan 2nd 2021 to chase every young mans dream of being a competitive collegiate cheerleader, a feat in which I think it safe to say I was successful.

At least a dozen of my friends (and one mother) kept asking me why I haven’t written about my travels. My response was that yes, I’ve done some really cool things while abroad, and I’m sure they’d make for a great story, but they don’t have that special sauce I throw into all my literary works – purpose.

This isn’t a diary. I’m not writing as an insurance policy for when I get old and lose my marbles and need to remember my youthful adventures – I have Instagram for that, and it comes with pretty pictures. If I posted whenever I wandered into one of the 51 states for the first time the writing would be hollow, and the only lesson would be that Wyoming is a shithole and to never go there.

So yes, I could write about how I found love in the mountains, or my annual murder mystery birthday parties, or dodging tornadoes in Kansas, Blue Moon degeneracy and 4th of July rednecks, about 36 hour road trips, truck stop hack sack, the Brewski’s job, shotguns in Disney World, Leslie’s Bar & Grill, on turning 30, making cheer history, M16’s and Everclear, or even that time I pissed into the Grand Canyon.

I COULD write about these things, but I won’t. If you want to hear about them, buy me a beer.

Instead, I’ll keep this blog for its intended purpose, and now that I’m back maybe, just maybe, I’ll have something to say again.