Sexy-Five

               

 People used to joke that I was born forty-five, but now that I’m actually attempting to get into the “social media” my little sister is already fluent in, I’m pretty sure I’m actually sixty-five.

                I am not internet-retarded, I promise. I’m pretty sure my computer is permanently fused with my body, actually, because I don’t remember being without it. Really, I can’t remember now. Crap—are we fused at the memory part of the brain? What is that part, the hypothalamus? That’s actually the only part of the brain I can think of offhand because it sounds like “hippo,” so probably not.

                I digress. Like a sixty-five-year-old grandma.

                So what’s the first thing I did when I set out to make myself a social media platform (platform? Stage? Performing monkey show? Idk, guys)? Make a lot of stupid, desperate blogs that did everything but type out “love me, like me, read about me” in all caps. Now, after some supercaligrajulisticexpialidocious research, I’m attempting the same thing, only this time with a lot more theoretical knowledge, and a lot less desperation. Kind of.

                Why did I originally resist the wave of social media that should have instantly adopted me as one of its own? Well, besides being born sixty-five, I suffer from what I like to call chronic-lurking. Even in high school, I was a lurker, except with a less creepy connotation. Probably. Though there was that one time, with the peanut butter and someone’s foot…

                Anyway, I like to sit on the sidelines, observing, considering, biding my time, before I pounce on what I want (to all future boyfriends, you have been warned). I did it in high school, I did it in college, and now I’m doing it on the internet.

                Or, if I want to blatantly honest like everyone is on the internet (snerk), it could be more accurately chalked up to this: if my pride was a Pokémon, my HP would be in the red every time I tried to convince people to read my stuff.

                Blogging is dangerous. Almost as dangerous as those guys who keep spinning like psychos on the path to the next Pokémon gym. They always make me break out in a cold sweat.

                Anyway, I’m ready to take this internet-world by storm—or by accident, whichever way it works. I’ve just decided not to care too much. If you guys decide to stick around for my quirks, stories, life-blurbs, and terrible Nintendo and fandom references, feel free. If not, eh, hasta la vista. See you later. Have a good life; especially if you actually are sixty-five! You’ve earned it, pal.

                 But you know, now that I think about it, when I’m actually in my “Sixties,” I’m going to make people say I’m in my “Sexies.” Future children, prepare yourselves.