Poetry is that Hipster Tie You're Wearing--A Blog about Blogging

So you know when you have that adorable skirt/tank combo laid out, ready to throw on at 7A.M., after you've hopped out of bed, jogged, showered, and made your eyeliner look exactly identical?

Yeah. Me neither.

But there are often those days that I am on a mission to create an adorable outfit, and it ends up kind of flopping. Literally. The number of times I have unintentionally flashed my professors whilst trying for adorable-ness is far too high to be comfortable sharing on the internet. But then when I slap on what I affectionately call my "fat era" jeans and some weird top with dinosaurs on it, people are all "look how cute!" and I'm all "huh?" and then my face does that thing that ruins the cuteness.

Well, writing tends to be woefully similar to wardrobe malfunctions.

When I blog, I'm taking a vacation from all things literary. Even if I'm blogging about literature. I mean. In blogs. I can write in. Fragmented sentences. And no one. Cares. I cAn EvEN; pLAy wIth Grammar AND p!unctuation. Okay, maybe not. But I can just let my brain do its crazy, weird thing, and my hands just obey by flying across the keyboard, and shit happens in thirty minutes or less. I'm like a pizza joint, although sometimes with less calories. I'm the lazy, let's-kick-back-and-have-some-lemonade outfit. Blogs are Target sunglasses on a sunny day. Cute, but not pretentious. Useful, thus not douchey. They are the jeans that will always love you, no matter how fat you get.

But then there's fiction. And fiction is that outfit that you have to wake up a half hour earlier just to prepare. It's that dress that only fits just so if you eat celery the day before. Fiction is that winged eyeliner that seems straightforward and flawless when you're half asleep and downing some coffee, but then everybody looks at you like you're Miley Cyrus on crack, unable to stop. Fiction includes those staple accessories you throw on in attempts to look sophisticated, but really, you just wear the same earrings every day, because if you were responsible for actual jewelry, you'd lose your shit. Sometimes fiction includes painfully high heels that look fantastic on famous people, but forces you to hobble about like Bigfoot.

Once I've hit poetry, I'm wearing those ironic Uggs that no one realizes are ironic. I'm dyeing my hair blue and pretending I like jeggings before they were cool. I'm wearing bright red lipstick and pretending it's a subtle message that my lips are bleeding love. I want my floral leggings to accentuate my overflow of emotions, but really they're accentuating the fact that I haven't tightened up that muffin top.

Wow, writing really is cruel to weight problems, now isn't it?

Poetry is that Diane Keaton tie you're trying to pull off.

Song lyrics are those dresses that make other people look about seven feet tall and ninety pounds, but make me look like an oompa loompa. They work fabulously on those who have spent their whole lives perfecting the art of shopping, but for the novice shopper, they scream out "I SHOULD'VE STAYED ON THE MANNEQUIN!"

And diaries? Diaries are this.

Namaste.