Happy Birthday, Bloggy

Bloggy is seven years old today. When I started him, I didn't think I would be in North Carolina seven years later, living in a mobile home and writing, writing, writing to keep the demons at bay. I thought I would be a teacher, either at FSU or at my old high school, drumming Spanish verbs into thick, pot-dulled heads and cursing the state of education. I thought I would be married, or at least loved, and thought I would have learned what it means to exist outside myself.

I never thought I'd be here, now, as I am. Stronger in many ways and yet so very fragile in all the ones that matter. Bloggy has been here through it all, a point of stability in an otherwise uncertain, tempestuous life. Catharsis and sanctuary and soap box and rickety bully pulpit. I am still nothing and no one, but because of Bloggy, I am a no one with a voice, however weak and broken and hoarse from so much useless screaming.

Happy birthday, Bloggy.