You know you’re a shitty blogger when you don’t even remember the password to your own blog. What’s worst, I’m approaching the anniversary of my Dad’s birthday, almost one year to date when I last posted something on this thing. What’s stopping me you ask? Much like the young adolescent girls I see walking the “bustling” streets of Terrassa with their ever-so-attractive crotch sagging jeans and 60’s punk hair with the lovely thick line of mascara which makes them look closer in kin to a raccoon than Penelope Cruz, I too am hiding behind a mask.
My excuses are numerous. Just ask me, and I guarantee I’ll come up with a few dozen for you to choose from:
- My cat ate my computer cord
- I’m too busy drinking
- What haven’t I said here that isn’t plastered on Facebook, Twitter, Catavino, Wineblogger, The European Wine Bloggers Conference, or Flickr?
- Seriously? Another blog post for you to read? How many do you people need?!
But that’s the point of a blog, isn’t it? Self expression. The magical “I” word. The word that either bores people to death or makes them fall in love with you. I can’t promise I’ll post here often (issues with commitment), but I will do my best to check weekly (false promises sprinkled with issues of commitment), and if you’re lucky, I’ll even go so far as to write daily (false promises sprinkled with issues of commitment and layered in a date with therapist).
To be clear, Ryan has challenged me to write about our experiences as expats. The stories, despite not only being numerous, delicately balance between being gut wrenchingly hilarious and heartwrenchingly (staking claim on this new word) sad. Culturally, emotionally and otherwise, they are truly wonderful stories that should be told.
Let’s see what I come up with.
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