Throwback

by Nic Olson

Three years ago to the day, I birthed a giant. An ever-changing, twice named, 278 post, giant. When my great child ripped out of my womb and entered the interwebbed world, I named him ‘Partying Since 1988’. I was young when I had my first child, and the name was not appropriate for the type of child it was. I later renamed him ‘Balls of Rice’, like that one 3 Inches of Blood song (running through your veins). When it all began, I didn’t expect it to be like it has been. I didn’t expect that this one poorly laid out blogger page would be the only thing I could actually count on. I didn’t think that it would start as a joke and eventually become a facet of my life that I take quite seriously.

It all began on a once popular networking site, before it was eclipsed by a ‘book of faces’, and before it became a treasury of spam advertisements. I used that as my channel for internet speech, and someone proposed that I get my own blog. I never saw the need, as Myspace was the be all and end all of the internet, but I birthed my giant anyways. And I haven’t looked back. My three year streak of perceptive analysis could have died with Tom Anderson years before it started.

Many people start their own personal blog, where briefly thought out ideas are poorly written and shown with photos and/or anecdotes. A large percentage of these blogs are soon abandoned and left in the desert of un-updated web pages. I nearly discontinued my own a few short months after I began and several times after that. I have always found the blog phenomenon quite peculiar. Whether it is a family blog where memories of dirty faced children dominate each post, or whether it is a travel blog in which sightseers give a day by day update of sights seen and foods eaten, just to make their grounded friends jealous, or whether it is some young halfhead who opines constantly for three years, it has never made sense to me. Because of that, a lack of interest, and the idea that I was not meant to be a writer, I nearly threw in the metaphorical towel. But I didn’t, and I’m still alive. Every time I write a new post, I question whether it is worth my time to continue, citing the fact that I truly know nothing about writing and that the only people that have complimented my writing are good friends or drunk people. But I felt that I have found something special. A relationship I never thought I would get, and found a love for the pen, or the keyboard, or the iPod touch screen.

Happy Birthday Mom!
Happy Birthday Jerms! (new house, new job, now all you need is a wife with broad hips to birth your own legacy)
Happy Birthday Balls of Rice!

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