Dear blog, happy 20th birthday.
If you are my offspring, you are officially an adult now. Wait… didn’t I say that 2 years ago already? Can one become an adult twice? I guess… Maybe when you get a Japan residency? Yes you have moved to .jp now so your coming of age is officially twenty. *Cue a dazzling Furisode background takeover.*
(Does anyone here even know what a background takeover is? Oh… right, the last time this blog experienced one, flip phones were still cool. Sorry about that.)
So… my blog was a teenager just a blink ago and now she’s an adult. She can get drunk and do all sorts of irresponsible adult shit and it won’t be my fault anymore. What do adults do, actually? After writing a blog for twenty years, I still don’t know how adulting works, apparently. Also, I have officially run out of profound things to write for all these anniversary stuff, because it feels like the earth has orbited a full circle and I am stuck on pause and haven’t moved an inch. It’s like all these things just whizzed by me while I stood still on the same spot, like how the 2014’s Instagrammers take their cool but very meiwaku Shibuya Crossing shots. Except that it isn’t really cool at all. Unless you are Fudomyoo, then you can be as immovable as you can and still be cool. Or hot. Whichever is cooler. Or hotter. And I also need to stop writing nonsense just to fill up the pages because this is not a school essay. Those days were gone. Or were they? Old habits really don’t die.
The sense of time gets so muddled up I no longer know how to live. I’m not pretending to have no rizz by saying skibidi shit but it does feel that way… Like I have lost my life GPS (or have purposely yeet it into outer space) so now I no longer know what direction is. I said “what”, not “which”.
(Also, is that how you use “yeet”? My almost-teenage son, who seems to summon rizz effortlessly, says it like that. But is there even a past tense for “yeet”? Surely it’s “yelt”?)
(Okay, I just lost all my rizz points by looking it up. It’s YEETED.)
You know they say, live one day a time. But what makes a day worth living? How does one celebrate the fact that they are alive? Is being alive very celebratory? No cap, genuine question. I wish we could ask a dead person how they would rate being alive at the scale of 1-10. You know, sort of like how you would rate conveyor belt sushi after having tasted a Michelin omakase in Ginza. I’m not comparing the afterlife to Ginza, I mean, except that on weekends it probably is, when the cars are off-limit, which is why they called it the 歩行者天国–Pedestrian Paradise. So now I have just made up this image of dead people walking and shopping in Ginza nomming on omakase sushi. Wait, that’s maybe how heaven actually is like, for all we know. Like actually. Then being alive would rate quite mid, wouldn’t it? If you don’t have to punch in nine to five, pay bills and demold your foggy brain and cellophane tape your leaky gut and at the same time worry about which war will hit your roof if all you have to do is float around to shop at Ginza and have free flow infinity negitoro maki. Now that’s the kimo-kawa, zombie-chic game I’d wanna play.
Anyway, twenty years feels like the world’s completed one epic spin. Maybe it’ll twirl around again. Maybe a new star will pop up, and it’s time to let that star shine.
At least you know you have not failed yourself when your human offspring is willing to read your shitty book. (As a matter of faecal, it does contain a lot of metaphorical skibidi toilet.)
See you on next year’s anniversary.
