Hello again, faithful readers. After a strong, inner debate with myself, I’ve decided to tell my other self to shut up and continue with writing here. This post has been wreaking havoc on me for a while. I haven’t decided which route is best, what words are enough, but I guess I’ll just focus on what’s at the forefront of my find currently: my inability to function as a normal human being. Let’s begin!
My junior and senior years of high school, my English teachers worked my nerves to sliced, frantic, temperamental, frayed edges. These women were impossible to please: too short, too long, too descriptive, “why are you being so minimalistic?” It got to the point where I was terrified to turn something in, knowing it would be wrong. Granted, looking back, I was able to not only skip my first two English classes at Mizzou, but grow to love writing in general. And it was only because of my English teacher during freshman year of college that I actually began to relax and get the confidence back.
But, that same panic has set back in. After a kick in the head to remind me just how much of an impact my interconnected, social, fun blog can make, I’m petrified to spill any thoughts people might find interesting. How can one write about certain summer escapades when my mother has bookmarked the page? How do I talk about my 86-year-old estranged grandfather and his 17-year-old child when my family doesn’t want their dirty laundry aired? My grievances, my rants, my own mistakes: they all have an effect, I know. And I could save that for my own personal diary. But, I also read Dooce religiously, and I want to know her secrets because she’s figured out how to do it.
For anyone who doesn’t know, Dooce got fired for talking about her job in a blog when no one even knew what a blog was. Instead, she’s managed to change it into her and her husband’s full-time income by talking about her ex-communication from the Mormon community, her babies, and her post-postpartum depression. The woman just got voted #26 in Forbes’ 50 Most Influential Women. And my guess is that her mother doesn’t enjoy reading about her sex life, but that doesn’t stop her.
I suppose it’s not a big deal. After all, I leave in less than a week. I can choose not to continue this, to keep a blog going where the main audience would be less than happy to be cast members. But, I’ve really enjoyed blogging. And in this day and age, the ability to keep up with a blog as a journalist is just about as important as figuring out what that little thing that you scribble with and blue goo comes out does… What’s that thing again…? Oh right. Pen.
I ran into one of the main investigative reporters at FOX in the bathroom about a week ago, and asked if she had any interesting stories going on. There, by the hand towels, she told me that the day before, she’d just finished a 4-year investigation that ended with freeing a man from a 15-year sentence in prison.
And she was so modest about it! Here I was, getting prickly hairs on the back of my neck, and she was completely composed about her life-changing accomplishment. Literally, she just saved somebody’s life… with journalism. How AWESOME is that? And when I asked what’s next, she just joked, “I don’t know. Have another kid? Get a hobby? After this, it’s just like- what else is there?”
So, Aly, what have you done today?
While I haven’t proven anyone innocent this summer, I’m still in awe of all the opportunities I have been given. I have 3 days left at FOX, and I plan to make the most of them.
My last shift at Rawbar, however, was last night. In one of my beginning posts, I talked about being disgruntled that 2 days in, I hadn’t met any lifelong friends to share Christmas cards with. By the third day in Tampa, I had. I just didn’t know it yet. They’re even willing to go out with me at Midnight on Wednesday to celebrate my 21st.
Let’s just hope I survive.
And while, according to my initial Bucket List from the beginning of summer, I haven’t accomplished much of any of the goals (i.e. gaining a tolerance, getting in shape, finding a way to relax) I did accomplish one of the goals.
I sang karaoke.
And not once. Not twice. Not three times.
Four times. Two separate occasions. I have not ONE valid excuse for mortifying myself. On separate occasions. In front of different groups of people.
For the record, I cannot sing Come What May like Nicole. I am not Sheryl Crow. I cannot work it like Carrie Underwood. And I should have taken a note out of Ashlee Simpson’s book and just lip-synced to her song like she does.
But, damnit. I can cross it off the Bucket List.
In the meantime, I have 4 days left here and a beach and coworkers/ Jamie that are calling my name.
Buccaneering my Paducah off,