I don’t know if any of you have heard of the genius that is Sir. Stephen Markley (Yeah, I always refer to him as sir, and I feel like he would thoroughly appreciate that, and also have a good old laugh about it, so I’m gonna continue that notion), but whenever I decide to sit back and read a few chapters of “Publish This Book”, I immediately feel a rush of creative guilt that screams at me, “Annika, why the fuck aren’t you writing hilariously inappropriate anecdotes on your blog for your father to shame you for later!”. Now, I’m not going to do that, because yes, I’m fairly sure I once mentioned this URL to my dad, and while I know he appreciates my prose, I’m far too terrified of broadening his knowledge on the fact that my friends and I are all sexually active (we’re 20, it’s not wildly inappropriate at all, but no one wants their dad, or any other family member for that matter, to read about their friend having sex with a random in Byron Bay).
Anywho, after reading about 50 pages of Markley’s book, consciously constructing my fan mail that borders from a vague infatuation to a strong sexual attraction to, “I’m going to stalk you until you love me and provide me with millions of children that I’m not sure either of us really want”, I opened up the webpage to this very blog. “Annika Tague. 19 year old uni student and book worm”. All of a sudden, I blinked twice and realised that the lyrics to “Teenage Dirtbag” didn’t really apply to me anymore, because as of 8 days ago, I joined the club that is 20. And while I’m not as bothered by this increase in number as I lead on, I just feel vaguely disturbed. At the age of 11, when my eldest brother was at this point in his life, I recall thinking to myself “dang, you is old”. So, now I’m sitting out on my balcony, my feet covered in socks and shoes, yet still numb for some confusing reason in the middle of an Australian October, and I’m questioning which link on wordpress will take me to the “edit your info” page.
While blogging is fun and therapeutic and something that most aspiring journalists/writers, and any other creative souls for that matter, basically are forced to participate in, it also makes me feel like a sad 13 year old girl, writing in her journal about the curly-haired boy who decided to make her best friend his girlfriend, as her tears roll off her chin and onto her stuffed minnie mouse that she grasps tightly to her budding bosom. I’m quite happy to talk about my love for great novels or the hilarity of shows like “Parks and Recreation” and “Bob’s Burgers”. Or my iron strong opinions that I’ve learned to hold back, because sometimes arguing with someone on Facebook, who comes from an extremely privileged family, and merely holds their political views because they overheard Mummy and Daddy agreeing with Abbott’s immigration laws, is not always worth your breath.
Then, there’s the things I can’t talk about, but have a feeling I’m going to anyways, because they’re the sort of hilarious anecdotes people want to hear. They’re the kind of things that, as Markley has showed me, need to be embedded in your writing for, not just comedic value, but to prove that life is real, raw and not as serious as most people in your PHIL106 class like to make it seem. I was one of those anxious morons at the age of 16-18 who took life far too seriously. This was the age when I should have spent more time drinking, less time studying and more time kissing random boys at parties whose calves were still skinnier than my pony tail. I can’t really say I hate myself for not engaging in this type of behaviour, because I’ve made it to university (that was the overall goal of being a super lame dork, right?) and am now kissing random boys who have wider backs than me and manage to kiss and grope at the same time without stopping to look where their hand should go next. Maybe I took my time getting here and maybe I’m slightly hating myself for writing such a quizzical and existential piece of blatant banter, but let’s blame Markley. Markley made me do it.
And as I write that, it becomes my number one fear that he’ll somehow find the link to my blog because, “Hey man, I read some chick’s blog from Australia who really wants you to impregnate her”, and he’ll scoff at my nonsensical writing, tell me that I’m a basic bitch and laugh about it with his buddies, who I secretly all want to be my friends as well. Sick one, Annika. Maybe next time you should write about the boy you’re in love with but too scared to admit anything to, and subscribe to all other female teenage blogs who post about the same trivial bullshit. Oh, but wait, you’re not even a teenager anymore…