Blog is a funny word, isn’t it?
If a blog were a creature, I imagine he’d be something like a slimy amoeba, but very jolly, and the only thing he would be able to say is: “Blog, blog, blog.” He would crawl his way through life saying “Blog, blog, blog.” He would look at birds high up in trees and say, “Blog.” He would stare with bubbly eyes at enticing ice cream cones in children’s hands and say, yearningly, “Blog.”
He’d be a really friendly dude but he’d have no friends because he’d keep scaring everyone away with his constant: “Blog, blog, blog.”
If a blog were a creature, he’d spend his days sitting in a fishing boat waiting for fish to catch his bait. He’d sit in his boat for hours, confident at first that fish would come, then by hour five then six then nine he’d start melting in the sun, that at that point would be setting, and by night fall he would be a bubble at the bottom of the boat, and he would disintegrate as he uttered, out of desperation to be heard by someone, anyone: “Blog.”
Overnight, in his sleep, he would regrow into the big healthy blog that he knows himself to be, and begin fishing again, eager because of the hope of a new day. He would greet the sun as though it never set on him the night before. “Blog,” he would say, happily, as he threw his line into the water. “Blog,” he would call out to the fish.
If a blog were a creature, he would sometimes feel insecure about his appearance because as a blog, he wears no clothes and has no face or shape. He has no body so no clothes would reasonably fit him. He has no lashes to apply mascara, not that he knows what makeup is. He worries that people will notice how horrible he looks, but he also worries that no one will notice him at all.
If a blog were a creature, I would invite him to dinner. I would ask him why he chose to be a blog, to which he would respond, “Blog.” I would ask him, why do you appear to be so happy all the time, and he would tell me his secrets but I wouldn’t understand him because all he would say is: “Blog.”
That’s why nobody likes you, I would say, frustrated because the dinner I’m paying for is expensive and the conversation is stale, and I’m realizing as the night progresses that a blog doesn’t eat because he has no teeth and no esophagus and no stomach either. He is a blog, he is but himself, a creature that exists for the mere sake of existence, but also, though no one seems to understand him, he has something to say.
“Blog, blog, blog,” he says, as I press on about why he lives the way he does.
“Blog, blog, blog,” he responds, when I say I’m just trying to help but it appears as though he could care less.
“Blog,” he says, finally, when I ask for the bill, and I eye him curiously wondering, if I don’t understand him, is it possible that he doesn’t understand me either?
“Blog,” he says again, as we exit the restaurant. I look at his bloggy face, his bulging eyes and mouth that resembles the outline of a number eight without the line in between. I think I see a trace of eyebrows but it’s just slime seeping downward; I think he is sweating but it’s hard to tell. He has no feet, he simply slides along the floor beside me. He’s usually jolly but tonight he seems sad. I don’t like this look on him.
“Blog,” I say.
“Blog,” he says, his eyes lighting up.
“Blog?” I say again.
“Blog,” he says, even more enthusiastically.
And finally I understand. I understand his language. I understand what he’s been trying to tell me, what he has been trying to tell the world. I understand because I realize he is an echo, and he is simply speaking my mind.
“Blog,” he says, relieved that I finally understand.
“Blog,” I say, back. “Blog, blog, blog.”
“Blog, blog, blog,” he says.
And so we finally begin to converse.
And in this moment, our moment, unscripted as it was, a stranger walking by slows down upon hearing our strange exchange, recognizing something in us.
“Blog?” says the stranger, looking up from her phone, curious.
Are we a déjà vu? An unearthed memory? A reflection? The words she’s been trying to find? The sign she’s been waiting for?
“Blog!” we cry happily, calling her to join us. We recognize her too, though we’ve never seen her before.
“Blog, blog, blog,” we sing together in the night.
Mad Girl Writing 