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I used to type “b” into my browser address field and it would bring up the blogger homepage that I stubbornly keep this thing hosted on. Because in my heart I’m still 15 and this is still 2009 and I’m futzing around the attic with hot lights for some stupid reason to help me pretend I know how to take a photo and set up a camera. Instead I check I with myself, and it’s not the streets of Buffalo, New York outside my window anymore, where it smells like fireplaces and crispy, cold air. My world doesn’t feel small and hopeful, or nearly as romantic as it did when I was a teenager. This happens to everyone, but y’know, now I’m writing about it.
I’m 30 now. I turned 30 this year. I have a life I had no idea how I would “get to” as a teenager. I pay bills and work a job that is way beyond what I could have comprehended as a child and humbles me every week (understatement). I question myself and I’m just as hard on myself now as when I was looking down the barrel of taking the regents exam. I wonder if making money is satisfying enough. I have family members who have died now who I thought would live forever.
I’m a dime a dozen now, which I guess is its own comfort. Here’s my check-in: I work in tech, I’m naive but creative, I’m satisfied by a sense of purpose and “fit” but I kinda lost my way. Still, I love trying to understand style anywhere I can, I like talking about why people want to express themselves a certain way. I love what Omondi’s doing, her work is the closest thing I have to the feeling I would get after seeing someone shared a new blog post.
Instagram sucks, I hate TikTok, though I dig Tumblr and Pinterest where I can still fall down holes and remain a dinosaur of internet culture comfortably. I miss magazines. I miss the feeling of waiting. I waited. If you are still reading this and had been in a position of waiting, welcome back. I hope I can satisfy.
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