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I sit down to write a post for my blog. The topic… Religion? Nope. Relationships? Not my own. Politics? Umm… I like Obama. That’s good enough.
Which celebrities do I think need to go SAT DOWN and think about themselves? Yes. I’ll write about that. What fashion trends need to die a violent death in a Dereon bonfire? My readers are all too familiar. Hilarious adventure I had yesterday? Sure, I’ll share.
I don’t write about anything that’s really personal to me. I don’t write about how Father’s Day came and went with no recognition from me despite the fact that my dad is alive and well. I don’t write about how I wish I could forge a stronger relationship with God.
By nature, I’m non-confrontational. Harmony Rules Everything Around Me (HREAM). To open myself up is to subject myself to vilification. And honestly, being judged by people, even those I do not know, is something I’m not ready for. I’m just not brave enough.
I haven’t always been a Surface Blogger though.
I started blogging in the days when AOL reigned supreme and the running yellow man and that “ping” sound signified an internet connection. Back when A/S/L (age/sex/location) was a popular “getting to know you” question. (24/No, thank you. I hardly know you/Chitown). Yes, yes y’all. Way back in 2003.
Picture it, my computer, six years ago. It was the second semester of my freshman year in college. The blogging platform was called Xanga. It was clunky, slow and the content looked clumsy.
My blog was called “Consider This The Letter I Never Wrote.” It was like an online journal. Sometimes, I’d blog about my day, no matter how minute the details.
I also blogged about extreme emotions and vented. Super pissed? Blog about it. Feeling really down? Weep with my words. The time I fought with my good friend and felt betrayed? Call her a b*tch online. Witnessed my nephew’s birth? Describe the joy & disgust of childbirth to everyone!
I shared my highs and lows with my reader(s), which consisted of a handful of friends. Basically, it was an ordinary (read: boring) blog of a college student’s life.
Then my stepdad died of cancer in December of 2005:
“My Stepdad’s wake was yesterday, and it was tough. What I saw was far from the man I knew. At first, when we walked into the funeral home, and into the section where he was laid, I walked about 10 feet from the casket and retreated, because the glimpse of him totally unsettled me. I walked away, and had a quick cry and then came back and got by the casket. His body looked nice in the gray pinstriped suit that me and my Mom picked out for him. His tie was on point (a gradated blue and gray one). There was a Bible on his chest with his arms placed on it, and a rosary around that. The suit fitted him to a tee (which in itself was a GREAT accomplishment by the Undertakers, due to the fact that he probably weighed less than me when he died). Then I worked my way up to his face, and here was where I just wanted to bawl.”
My stepdad was a handsome man, who was closer to the lighter side than darker. He loved to laugh, and loved to LIVE, and live well. The man in the casket only slightly resembled him, with his dark, rubbery skin, and expressionless face. The only way I knew it was him for sure was by the shape of his eyes, and his profile still showed a bit of his former self. I was FLOORED! I stared, walked away, and repeated over the course of the night. Before the service started, at one point, the only people standing by his casket were me and my Sis. And we touched him. He was SO COLD and hard. His body was rigid. “Can I touch his face?” My sis said “Yeah if you want.” It was like I was touching mere skull. So cold, and so hard. We stared for a while, and studied him almost. I couldn’t stop. I was looking at him, hoping that I’d see a little twitch at anytime, and he’d open his eyes. Nothing. He didn’t quite look like he was sleeping, and I’m not sure if I’d say he looked completely lifeless either. But he certainly was not in that body.”
I opened myself up in a way I probably never will again in a public forum. I am no longer willing to share my pain and deepest feelings with a unknown amount of people. Even reading it now, I get slightly uncomfortable that I shared so much of myself. I can’t remember if there were any comments on that post, but I can’t imagine that I actually wanting feedback when I posted that.
Today, I’m a closed book with a few open chapters.
I abandoned Xanga 3 years ago and moved to Blogger where I created a new blog named “Luvvie’s Queendom” or something chiché and cheesy like that. Then changed it to “Luvvie’s Random Rants”, which today is “Awesomely Luvvie.”
The recipe for my blog’s brand of social commentary is a scoop of analysis with a dollop of wit and a pinch of snark in a crust of IGnance (not to be confused with ignorance. IGnance is plum foolery, while still being intelligent). This gave birth to LuvvieIG (my Twitter screename).
I accidentally carved a niche for myself as a humorist when I started blogging about random things in the news, pop culture and just life in general. What I blog about is often my stream of consciousness, and apparently, it’s amusing. I give credit to my over-imagination and my penchant for foolish metaphors.
A few of my reader favorites:
When writing about something that makes me loose my cool, odds are, you will see a *wall slide* or two (picture when someone goes on a wall and slides down into a crumple on the floor. THAT is a wall slide). I even filmed a video to show what a *WALL SLIDE* looks like. View HERE. The first reference I saw to someone sliding down a wall was on VerysmartBrothas.com. My imagination ran wild with it and I’ve been wall sliding ever since.
When something is too ridiculous for me to fathom, or has rendered me dumbfounded, I say a simple “iCan’t.” Can’t what? Doesn’t matter, Whatever it is, I just can’t. This is closely related to “iRebuke it.”
When I see a wig or weave, I refer to it as a “hairhat” (because some folks’ hair looks like a literal hat of hair strands)
My other Luvvie-isms include: iHate that iLove you, *thug on floor* (for when I get emotional), iRoast because iLove, iShan’t…
Although I get a lot of people to laugh, sometimes, I wish I hadn’t pigeon-holed myself into being a humorist. There are times I want to lay on my eCouch and vent to my readers about the things that are truly bogging me down. I’m tempted to talk about my perpetual feeling of being overwhelmed because of my huge fear of failure.
But at this point, folks have come to expect a certain kind of writing from me. To serve them with an op-ed or an emo post would weaken my brand.
Although even Atlas Shrugged, Luvvie can’t. I’ll just *wall slide* my way through my thoughts. Thankfully, I don’t have to try too hard to be funny. If I did, I’d be drier than Beyonce and her lacefront hairhat during an interview. My hope is to stand out somehow by making folks cackle a couple of times.
Will I ever write about personal topics again? Sure. When Idris Elba ends up on my doorstep and professes his love for me, I’ll share EVERY bit of that experience with my readers.
Until then. iShan’t.
