Excuses, excuses.

You know my first ever post on this blog? No? Well, just scroll down an inch, and you can read it. You know how I said that the first post might be the last post I’d ever write, because I’m lazy? You do? Good. Well, it wasn’t my last post, but I only wrote four before going on an extended hiatus. Sure, I could make excuses, such as: “I realized I should go into a career with more stability like farming” or “I was studying abroad in London for three weeks,” or “My dog ate my computer,” or “I was taking time to reflect on my upcoming last year in college.” You know what, though? I’m just lazy.

Not “lazy” in a sense that I won’t ever do anything, ever, because I’d rather sit on the couch, watching TV, drinking syrupy beverages and eating salty snacks (although, that does sound like some sort of life I’d be interested in). More “lazy” in a sense that I want to do something, but get so overwhelmed at the amount of dedication it takes that I sort of fall out of doing it and that sitting in front of a TV is better—well, easier--and I can use the excuse that I can study the directing, cinematography, and dialogue of shows on a certain streaming service that I should have cancelled months ago.

I’m the type of person who tried to write in a diary when I was younger, wrote a few entries (four, maybe), and never opened it again. In fact, I had six or so diaries that I began, spread out across a decade or so. My problem, I thought, was that I didn’t have a cute enough diary—I’d invested in this hard bound journal, on which the cover was a golden retriever puppy, and I couldn’t bring myself to defile such a cute diary with pen or pencil. So, I got a “COMPOSITION” book (the black and white, army design un-spiraled notebook). I even got this really schnazy, electronic diary that only opened on the password I made up and to the sound of my voice. The only problem was that it was purple. Gross.

Long story short, I found out that it wasn’t the type of notebook I bought that kept me from filling its pages with countless, super-interesting happenings of the day (think: Dear Diary, today I managed to learn how to pop a front-wheelie on my bicycle).

Too bad I never consistently wrote in them, because I could be reading some gems right now.

But, you know what? I never had anything interesting to write. And, honestly, I don’t care about what the 6, 10, 14, or 16-year old version of me thought was important. I’m pretty sure I can remember that I thought Kevin from the Backstreet Boys was “HOTT” and that instant messaging was like, totally cool beans.

This isn’t to suggest that I have anything interesting to write in this time of day or that I’ll be reading them 10 years from now, reflecting on what I thought was funny or entertaining when I was 21 years old. But, I want to do it. And I’m going to do it--even if it takes two months between every four posts. By golly, I’m going to do it.

Now, where the hell is the remote?