Taking Blogging Back

Blogging is dead, someone once said. I disagree. Blogging isn't dead. It's audience just moved on. Who has time to read long rambling posts anyway? A tweet is more than enough these days. And for those exclusively living on the Instagram universe, a picture says it all.

But blogging isn't about the audience. It's not even about the post. It's about the writer who has long since been searching for a place of expression. Twitter is never enough, if you've seen the threads floating around. A picture may say a thousand words, but to a writer? It's not even close to being enough.

So, in my crusade, I am taking blogging back. For me. For my mental health. For my overall well-being.

Why?You might ask (the one person who stumbled upon this post and has nothing better to do).

The answer isn't simple. I wish it was. It wouldn't merit a blog post if I could have explained myself in a picture or a 280 character tweet.

Let's go back to April 20, 2018. I woke up. Normal. Checked my phone. Stretched. Greeted my cats (more like they greeted me asking for breakfast). I stuffed one of my mother's cats into a carrier because he's been harassing my cats--the bastard. If he wasn't so cute, I would have gotten rid of him months ago.

Maybe I was still half-asleep. The next thing that happened was a blur but a very painful blur. I went down the stairs. At the bottom was a quilted blanket, thrown down to the floor by the cats. I think in my brain I was thinking of avoiding it, but the signals must have gotten crossed because instead of stepping down flat on my foot, I ended up falling. Still unclear actually how this happened. I went tumbling down the last step. All my weight on my bent foot. I heard a series of pops. More like felt them. Upon landing came the most excruciating pain of my life. I haven't given birth so I'm guestimating here.

It hurt bad. I knew right away I needed to go to the ER and the second I got there I asked them to rush me to the nearest x-ray machine. Half an hour and a really nice pain killer later, I sat in a wheelchair, in front of a doctor, who told me what I already knew--the bone leading up to my pinky toe was broken. Fractured.

A cast went on a could of days later, after tons of icing and keeping the foot elevated (Oh, and more of those lovely pain killers). I've spent 80% of my time in bed ever since. I've successfully binge-watched Brooklyn Nine Nine in that time and several other shows. I wish I could say I've done a lot of reading. I've done even less writing. I'm a complete and utter failure. Successful as a bed-potato, but a complete and utter failure in everything else.

I guess you can say I lost my motivation. Being on a bed the entire day does that. Hence taking blogging back. I miss this space. I miss having somewhere to store my thoughts.

Now, if you will excuse me, there are six episodes of the final season of the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt waiting for me.
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