On Writing, and an Introduction to “Me”

I’m a dirty soul.

I’m shallow, I’m proud, and I’m superficial. I want affluence. I want popularity. I want influence. I want success. I want acclamation.

My life is centered around me. Me, me, me. Me, myself, and I.

I’ve written thirty-nine words so far; now, forty-five. Eighteen of those words were “me”, “I”, “my”, or “I’m”. The rest of them were used to describe “me”, “I”, “my”, or “I’m”. I’m so self-centered, I even named this blog after myself–my last name is Zhang, I’m anxious, and I have thoughts.

Are you still here? Oh dear. That means I should keep writing, shouldn’t I?

Maybe I should talk less about “me”, think less about “me”. It’s not like you care at all. Maybe, for your sake, I should use more varied sentences. “And words,” you might smirk. My periods, my commas: they cut you off quick, don’t they? I’m like a poor driver that brakes every two seconds and gives all of the riders whiplash.

I wouldn’t know, though. I’m actually a great driver.

It seems strange to open up like this so soon. You, reader, now know my flawed aspirations but more importantly, my ability to count words and my ability to drive without giving people whiplash. If I could pretend like I knew other writers, here’s when I would say: “See, I’m more special than the other writers because I can admit my imperfections.” But I don’t know any other writers. And if I did, I probably wouldn’t be able to make that statement without lying. Because writing, like all other forms of communication, exposes the self no matter much effort is taken to cover it up.

And thus, writing is exciting. I can’t control exactly which of my thoughts and which facets of my personality show up on this page, or which will show up on any number of my future pages. There may be parts of me that I don’t even know yet, but will worm their way through the entanglement of my conscience and reveal themselves through my stories, my essays, and my rants.

What’s really fun is that I don’t even have to tell the truth. I lied about being good at counting words; the three numbers I threw at you in the beginning were all false, guessed, made up, conjectured. I know for a fact that I would certainly never go through the process of counting up words just to be able to add the tiniest bit of spice into my writing. Don’t believe I have what it takes to lie on my first entry? Go ahead, count the words, I dare you.

What I can do now, and hopefully do without any further resentment from you, reader, is to lie about a lie. This is so much fun! Now you know, if you went and counted, that I lied about lying, but more importantly, that I would certainly take the time to count up words just to be able to add the tiniest bit of spice into my writing. To these extents I will go to please you, reader.

There, I’ve worked. I’ve toiled. I’ve counted words. I did this to show you that I’m serious, invested, and that I won’t allow thoughtless glossing to pass unpunished. Hopefully you don’t hate me so much now. Hopefully, you don’t anymore think I’m such a bad person, because I’m willing to work to prove it.

Even more hopefully, you still hate me, but you’re here for some odd reason that I know but you can’t seem put your finger on, a reason you don’t want to admit–that the grand amount of effort I’m putting into this is pleasing you, and that you are quite in fact entertained, and that you will definitely return for more.

Maybe, just maybe, my writing and my zhangxious thoughts were worth your time.




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