I am, unfortunately, not at all surprised by my lack of updates on this blog. This inevitably happens with just about every project I start. Take my diary from grade 2. Or grade 3. Yeah, 3. After recounting the fascinating tale of Sesso, the spider plant, which I had acquired from a neighbour (a plant which I also later abandoned. I think my mother adopted it. Or it died.) and several incidents at Pony School (with real ponies, okay, I'm not making this shit up) and then some angry angst from grade 7, it was discarded in earnest. I think I wrote six entries in total, covering that entire period. Even taking into account the brief period of inspiration I had after reading Harriet the Spy, it was pretty much guaranteed to fail from the start.
I even tried starting other diaries in this period - the classic red and black hardcover notebook lost its charm against the fuzzy, lockable diary I bought (I think it was from a book sale - yes, a book sale). It was so awesome I HAD to write in it. Right? Maybe if I tried poetry it would catch on. Like that time I wrote about winter when I was six or seven and my parents just about jizzed themselves reading it to my grandmother over the phone. I was totally talented - gifted, even. The fuzzy diary was my route to famous authorhood. Years after my death, fans would discover my childhood diary. My fuzzy, yellow with mulit-coloured spots, cheap, junk shit diary that came with keys. They'd find it, be amazed by my child prodigy-ness, and sell it on ebay. Total pwn.
Or not. I can't remember what happened to that thing. I probably threw it out or shoved it in the closet or the basement during one of my cleaning frenzies.
And then there was that time I made a livejournal account. Which I definitely updated almost never. But for a while I even had friends. We meme'd. We commented on each others' posts. It was like AA only without alcohol or debilitating addictions. But posting took time. Suffice to say, as you can no doubt see from the lack of posts in that journal (I definitely deleted them all, like a boss) that journal also failed.
And so here I am. I thought if I made it about food it would stick. It would continue; I would inspire people. Maybe somebody would make a movie about it. Or not.