It feels like I’ve lost the purpose of this blog and I want to find it again. I feel so stupid saying this because a blog is just a platform, not a journey. But what if it is? What if you eat and you blog and you love and I have missed all the signs because I was too busy laughing at everything and also hating everything. But can the postcolonial EAT, BLOG, LOVE? Did the blog die at the very moment when it seemed like all the sad brown people wouldn’t stop blogging?

I feel like I keep saying this every few blog posts, or maybe I just think about it in the shower: I need to write more, I’ve lost the purpose of this blog, I need to be more interesting, I need more clicks (I almost typed “dicks”—and yes … perhaps), I need more retweets, I need the favs, am I alive, etc., and I know people are like, shut up already, what are you, a narcissist, what are you, a woman, what are you, and the crux of it is I hate myself for having those thoughts and for wanting to write and for wanting attention. What this means is that I’ve lost the ability to not give a fuck and write. When I say “lost” I mean “I never had it”. This is not a bad thing at all but capitalist ideology posits solipsism as a triumph, an admirable thing, a wonderful starting point. Or maybe it’s both the starting point and the goal. You are supposed to not care. I know that this idea of not-caring-what-you-think-of-me needs to be historicised, raced, and gendered, before it can mean anything. Some of us get away with not-caring! Are rewarded handsomely, in fact! Make pots of money off of not-caring! And some of us care too much and then we die.

I feel I feel I feel ugh shut up I hate myself etc.

They never told you that this would be your future, that you would look back on the vast expanse of crumbling nothingness and say, with confidence, with assertiveness, with authority, Yes, I did it all for the retweet.

This is what they don’t tell you: witches and spinsters and killjoys and crones actually care; only bros are able to write like they just don’t care. (Because they really don’t. Who are these bros? I don’t know. I’m being vague because I’m subtweeting the entire male species.) It’s like everywhere you turn you’re surrounded by a sea of dicks and you keep waiting for another dick to part it. Somewhere in here I should talk about time and labour and technology and how the imperative to blog, to write, is about maintaining a kind of visibility on social media, about being an ever-present, ever-willing consumer. They ruin your privacy in order to sell it back to you. You need to “buy time” to get anything done. In the meantime, there are bills to pay and a dwindling savings account. THERE IS NO FUCKING MONEY AND THE HOUSE IS FALLING APA–But telling you this is a waste of your time, you know this already; I mean, you could just read Marx. The world, as it turns out, is not (y)our free trade oyster.

I would say that I’m not writing, but I am “writing”, I write in notebooks and leave them drawers. I used to do this all the time when I was younger, or not that younger, even when I was in university (taking philosophy classes with an old white man who made fun of Japanese people and poets—only because there were no Japanese people in his class; if there were, he would never mock them to their face, you understand, and as for whether there were poets in the class, oh well—) and I told myself when I am older I will be Published and I will throw my head back and laugh at everything because I will be so comfortable in my skin as A Writer, or at the very least, as A Person Who Writes Things. I’m older now and I still write things and hide them but I also write self-pitying blog posts that attempt to apologise to the world for my existence. But it’s not really the world I’m apologising to, it’s the imaginary (or is it real?) male professor/thinker/writer in my head. I’m sorry, I want to take up space, I want to write, may I write, would you mind if I write, would you be so kind as to let me write, please sir, do you think I should write?

Tldr; kill all men, abolish private property, destroy writing, free time.