1998
Today marks my 9 year blogiversary. It started with geocities, a garden in Paris and a first-name-only basis.
I practiced html, posted photos of myself and used it as a letter writing medium. I had just moved abroad and every penny mattered – I couldn’t splurge on airmail. It was cathartic and therapeutic and it helped me work through my homesickness.
Every now and then I find a page or two online somewhere. Cached on some random site. But for the most part it’s gone. Relegated to one of the hard drives I keep under my bed. Last night, I dug those babies out.
It wasn’t literature. And it wasn’t creative. But it was me, before I got it in my head to become a writer. When I still obsessed over John Douglas et al. and hung out with chics called Earl and Flynn. It was a diary that I kept. Religiously. And I’m getting ready to show it to you.
I’ve got other things to focus on this month. But I don’t want to put the blog on hiatus. So I’m sending you back to 1998. When I traded in Iaeger for London. Weeks in Princeton for weekends in Paris.
Here it is. The Original. Unedited. When I went by Buffy. And nothing else.
