Your concerns about whether or not I’m dead are cute. And only slightly concerning.
I suffered immense blog anxiety for not managing to get my shit together to write a proper post before leaving for vacation to Virginia.
I didn’t want to just go AWOL from the interweb, because then you guys would be left wondering whether I’d fallen prey to my stalker. Or I’d choked to death on a blueberry, which seems like an innocent and wholesome fruit but probably just the right size to get lodged in my windpipe when I’m alone in my apartment – and let’s face it, I’m home alone *a lot* so death and Jehovah’s Witnesses are always knocking on my door – and then my cats Isabel and Teva would be orphaned and fending for themselves, but definitely not feeding off my decaying corpse because I dish out extra food every day in case this macabre death-by-produce scenario ever unfolds. Or I’d abruptly abandoned this site after proposing marriage during Date 3 to Katie, who is skittish about new relationships and wants to go slowly, and even joking about marriage here is probably not at all wise, and she’s likely deleting any trace of me from her phone as she reads this, and I don’t know why I’m still typing but I can’t seem to stop because this sentence is strangely engaging, and also I should probably make more of an effort from here on out to not use any variation of the words “marry” or “engage” in the same clause as “Katie.”
But then I thought, That’s silly. You’re being melodramatic. No one will think you’ve gotten married or died.
As it turns out, I was wrong. Or, in fairness to myself and in true-blue Massachusetts-Democrat style, I was right before I was wrong.
After belatedly informing Twitter that I was on the road again, Jam responded, “Vacation! Thank goodness. I was starting to think you were dead. Or had abandoned us.” But that was nothing compared to the e-mail I received from my British bloggy buddy Jo and the Novelist fearing the worst from my apparently deafening silence:
This morning I woke up excessively early, made coffee, booted up my PC and opened Tweetdeck and I was all “Morning Tweeters” the way I do every Tuesday and you were not there to tell me to drink tea or buy grapes. And then I panicked.
As a blog-whore/future apocalypse buddy I thought that maybe I should check that you are, in fact, okay. And then I can stop panicking.
Are you okay? I hope you are okay and are not dead. If you are dead, then this email is going to seem like I’m really insensitive – which is in no way true. I’m practically made entirely from marshmallow.
Okay, I’m going to go now – because this email is making me sound weirder than I actually am, and I really thought that this was a good idea when I started and now, hmmm, not so much.
PS It’s been suggested that I occasionally get a little paranoid, especially if I’m also tired, in which case this is a whole load of crazy nose-diving into your inbox. I’m sorry.
If I prematurely ascend to that big kitten colony in the sky, or if you’re simply in the hunt for a new blogger whose possible death to ponder, you should check out Jo’s blog. She’s damn funny, unflinching in her insistence that I look like Tina Fey despite repeated rebuttals and she’s English and gulps tea by the gallon, which probably bodes well for her immunity and longevity. Also, she doesn’t judge me for thinking the tepid drink tastes like lawn. Or she keeps the judgment to herself. Either way, she’s a sweetheart. And if one of us is going to cheat death, it’ll be her on account of the tea, and I’ve learned that’s apparently what readers what in a blogger. Aliveness.
However, although I appreciate the grave concerns – and they only slightly creeped me out in an every-breath-you-take sort of way – I hope this post serves as proof to Jo, Jam and others whose names may or may not start with J that I’ve returned from vacation and am, in fact, alive despite my aversion to tea. And definitely not married. And actually, I hear from several reliable sources that marriage is a leading cause of death. Or it leads to longing for death. And I don’t want to die. I mean, we’re all going to die. Someday. Also, that’s not to say a marriage to Katie would be the death of me. She’s a stimulating synthesis of silly, snarky, smart and stunning and likely would make a super spouse.
Anyway, as I was saying, I’m not dead yet. Nor seeking to scare off easily spooked Katie, whom I’ve only known for a month. So I definitely shouldn’t talk about wanting to marry her.