blog.jpgSan Franciscans love technology, intellectual pursuits, and their own lives, so it stands to reason that they would love to blog.

Since many San Franciscans seem to work on a freelance, contract, or they don’t work basis they have plenty of time to spend posting pithy narratives about their experiences, or pictures of things in the Mission, or pictures of things outside of the Mission that they can write funny or nonsensical captions for. Often nonsensical things are the funniest or vice versa and San Franciscans have totally picked up on this.

Some people think that blogs are like diaries that are online, but blogs almost never say things like, I’m feeling suicidal because I can’t think of one goddamn thing to write about and everything is stupid. Sentences like that are what diaries and therapists are for, and both have become places for San Franciscans to express about how bad they feel about their blogs.

Not unlike your last boyfriend, blogging started out as something that was supposed to be fun. In those golden days of blogapalooza you were posting almost every day spurred by comments from friends that said things like, “You’re such a funny writer! XOXO.”

But slowly or all at once, you can’t even remember now, your blog became more guilt inducing than emails.

Your posts started to feel self-conscious and stilted, your metaphors got more abstract, “I am a shadow in the shadow of another funnier shadow”, you start posting inspirational quotes about the meaning of art, or links to Miley Cyrus’ twitter feed.

You watch your blog stats dwindle. You stop watching your blog stats.

You rediscover your diary and wonder why you ever left it. You experience a brief moment of the old exhilaration when one of your sad little posts is linked on a much more popular local blog, and your page views soar. You tell anyone who will listen that blogging is dead, and finally that writing is dead.

You ask a friend who is an artist if she ever feels frustrated during creative dry spells. She says no. You never speak to her again.

You read somewhere that you have to go back to the source. You wake up one morning with your face pressed against your iPad and remember that you don’t have an iPad and that the source for writing is life.

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