I wonder.

Doesn’t Blogger have anything better to do than flag and unpublish 13-year-old posts?


For what it’s worth, this blog was originally conceived as an idea to use Blogger as a twitter-esque platform, to post a book, sentence by sentence.

Obviously, it was an unsuccessful venture, but geez...

Your bots have gone....





Girl, Anonymous

I am Girl, Anonymous.

I'm not sure what I plan to post here.

Perhaps I'll continue my tweet story here, but I have pretty much abandoned my Twitter account. Twitter strikes me as being somewhat flighty, silly, and ridiculous.

I don't have an anonymous Facebook account, though I may change my mind.

In general, I don't trust social media, which do everything possible to siphon your innermost thoughts in order to sell goods and services to you. I like my privacy, which is why I've decided to post anonymously.

Although I'm posting as a girl, I could be any age, but I am a female.

You should know this about the real me: I don't do drugs or anything else illegal. I live an ordinary life in an ordinary town.

But what I post here may imply otherwise because most of what you will read and have read on this site is fantasy, only applying to real life in a very superficial sense.

I may be writing about my past, which was livelier than my present.

That's it for now.

233. You start having sex

just after your father’s spectral appearance in your life.

232. I throw myself on the bed

and pretend I’m having sex with John Lennon.

231. My grandparents have separate bedrooms--

a good thing, too, because I can’t imagine those two old people having sex.

230. I turn down the volume

to a setting that I know will still irritate Deems, but he won’t say anything. He’ll just go to his bedroom to stew.


Deems yells up the steps.

228. I drop the album on the record player

turntable and play “Long Tall Sally” at full volume. Paul McCartney.

227. But it doesn’t do any good

to sass back, so I snatch the album from Deems and go to my room, a cavernous attic with dormer windows.

225. I HATE when Deems acts like that.

It’s not MY fault my parents hate each other and don’t want me.

224. “Harrumph,” Deems says, looking over

the Beatles’ album with angry blue eyes. “A little support money would be more helpful than this clap-trap.”

223. “You mean HE’S in town again?”

Meems says, a bit of a sneer in her tone.

222. I tell Meems and Deems

about my father’s visit and show them the Beatles’ album.

221. Other than being old and irrelevant,

they act like parents anywhere, perhaps stricter than my friends’ parents. Still, there are ways around them.

220. I think they love me, but

are a bit perplexed at being parents again.

219. I like them okay; they give me

a weekly allowance and buy me just about everything I need and ask for.

218. I don’t remember much about my mother,

but I call my grandmother “Meems” and my grandfather “Deems.”

216. You cry as your mother waves “goodbye”

from the top step of the porch, but even then, you know that you grandparents will fulfill all your needs.

215. This is how you become

a California girl, which helps shape you into the person you become at age 14.

214. Your mother refuses to leave

the purple and white trailer but agrees to give up temporary custody of you and Snowball.

213. Your daddy leaves your mother,

you, and Snowball, and your grandparents drive out to Vegas from Los Angeles to try to fix things.

212. It goes on forever.

Until the policeman comes.

211. Loud words, CRASH! Table upturned,

bottles flying. Screams. Crying. Slaps...

210. You know what’s coming next,

so you cover your ears and try not to hear, but to no avail.