we've got to stop meeting like this, blog.
these late-night trysts that never come to fruition. this sneaking around. this not making things public, not making us official.
every night. 9 p.m. cocktail by my side, love songs on the radio.
you look sexy, as always. you look a little dated, sure, but I've always loved a vintage gal. so what if you could use a face lift? you'll always look pretty to me. I mean, your color scheme alone -
jesus, blog, there you go again. stop distracting me with your pretty little layout and your coy headlines. this is serious.
STOP LAUGHING I REALLY MEAN IT THIS TIME.
can you be serious for just one - ok, I know asking a blog with a Colonel Sanders fetish to be serious is like asking zooey deschanel to put down the ukelele and stop being so goddamn adorable - but blog, we need to talk about your draft folder.
I know. I don't like it either. but the thing is that I keep coming here. and I pour my foolish heart out into you. and I cry a little, and you correct my grammar a little, and together we create this little piece of pure, raw, unadulterated nicki in our corner of cyberspace.
and then we delete it. or we save it in a word document we'll never open again. or we leave it to languish in the drafts folder, never to be published.
no, you're right, blog. I delete it. I let it languish in the drafts folder.
but the thing is, blog, we've been writing every night and we've got nothing to show for it. or we read the mounds of beautiful posts piled up in our RSS feeds and think that what we write here is just...not worth It. whatever the hell It is. whatever the hell publishing an online journal for anonymous strangers to read on the internet is.
but blog, we owe you more than that. you're such a pretty young thing. all you need is a fresh coat of paint and some new material. but this - this soapboxing, this publishing, this performing thing - it's hard to get back into.
maybe we just need to get really drunk and stop caring what's good enough.
or maybe we just need to hold our heads high and say, world, readers, Internet at large, with all due respect, fuck it.
this is our space. we're going to write here. and some of it's going to suck and some of it's going to offend and some of it's going to be downright uncomfortable. like skinny jeans on a heifer. that is not an unpleasant euphemism for a fat lady. I'm talking about an actual heifer. think about it.
see? that analogy right there was bad enough to shutter The Loaded Handbag for good. but we're not going to do it, blog. we're going to keep our chins up and keep writing about the fashion choices of cows and what makes us deliriously happy and what we dream of and what we want and what scares us most.
and somewhere in all that clutter - in all that word jumble and funny gifs and Youtube videos - somewhere we'll strike gold. and for that rare flash of sentiment, that flash of meaning, that truth - well, that small truth makes it all worth it.
so you and me, handbag. my best gal. let's be brave.
let's fall from grace together.