I am sitting on the orange couch, staring at the computer screen. Self is standing in the doorway in her underwear and tanktop, digging into a pint of Haagen Dazs chocolate cookie ice cream. As I continue to stare, Self looks up momentarily and with a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth, begins the following conversation.
Me: (staring softly at the blank wordpress screen in front of me.)
Me: Hm? Oh, hi.
Self: What are you doing?
Self: Yeah, I can see that. Why are you doing nothing?
Me: No reason. I want to be doing something but I can’t figure out what I want to do.
Self: You mean, you’re trying to figure out what to write?
Self: Write about your day.
Me: Ugh. No. It was terribly boring.
Self: So? Isn’t that what blogging is all about?
Me: Well, maybe. But it’s about writing, you know? Writing well, I guess. I don’t just want to jot down what I did all day because other than that awesome jello at lunch it was pretty uneventful. I have readers, you know. I want to give them a little more than jello.
Self: Write about Dennis. You said you got a sweet email from him today.
Me: (grinning.) Yeah, but that’s mine. I don’t want to share everything he says with the world because then there’d be nothing left for me to have for my own.
Self: That’s stupid. You should share everything.
Me: You’re stupid! And plus, I don’t want to share everything. Because once I share it it’s not mine, and there’s people out there who will roll their eyes at the things that light up my face and make me happy. And I don’t want anyone rolling their eyes at Dennis’ words.
Self: Oh. Good point. So what do you want to write about?
Self: “Grown-up stuff?” What are you, like, thirteen? What do you mean?
Me: I don’t know. I guess stuff like going out. And dating. And swearing.
Self: You want to write about swearing?
Me: No, I don’t want to write about it. Dooce swears. Lots of bloggers swear.
Self: You swear.
Me: Yeah, but not nearly as prolifically as others. I’m a teacher. Apparently I have to be perfect.
Self: True. So excessive swearing is out.
Self: And you can’t write about dating because you don’t date.
Me: I know.
Self: You’re in a long term relationship.
Self: And long distance.
Me: Don’t remind me.
Self: So writing about dating is out, too.
Self: What was the other thing?
Me: Going out.
Self: Right. Going out.
Self: Gina, you don’t leave your apartment. Ever. How can you write about going out if you never leave?
Me: That’s not tr–
Self: It’s true.
Me: No, it’s–
Self: Just stop.
Me: (defeated) Well, I went out last night.
Self: Two nights ago. To your friend’s apartment one street over. In your pajamas. You don’t go out.
Me: Well she was sick!
Self: Give it up. Face it. You don’t go out. Game over. End of story. I win. You can’t write about going out. You’d be lying.
Me: You make me sound so pathetic.
[Self is speechless, looking at me with heaping spoon of chocolate ice cream poised in mid-air, en route to her mouth.]
Me: I know, I know. I’m the one writing this. I know.
Self: Hey, you said it. I’m just standing here.
Me: (under my breath) Yeah, shoveling ice cream into your fat face.
Self: (with mouth full) Huh?
Me: Oh, nothing. Just thinking aloud. Keep eating.
Self: (chewing a cookie, talking with mouth full.) Mm. It’s really good.
Me: (under breath) Mm-hmm. Keeeeeep eating.