loafe.com

I remember once upon a time, back in the hey day, when I had a few regular readers of loafe, from all over the country, all over the world.

I loved these people, all coming to vibrant life in the comments. It was filled with such lively discussions. Political discourse. So many great jokes. So much silliness. Insults and zingers. Weird shit. Goofy shit. Mean shit. Happy shit. All of us together, growing up and growing old, in this strange land.

And you know something? it WAS a community, a real community! Something I created, bringing together all these different people, from all over, with just my words. Back when the internet was still kind of new, kind of mysterious, kind of cool.

These loafers of mine, finding their way through the doors I’d created, strolling in, looking around for some kind of connection, to me, to others, to themselves. Creating this tiny special little community with me. they made loafe better. Made me better. We were friends and enemies and strangers and lovers and it was just so great.

I don’t think that is possible anymore. The internet has changed. The people and personalities who once populated loafe… they’re gone. we all got older. Time pushing us along, our paths shifting with the winds.

the world has moved on.

But I’m still here. 20 years and counting. That means something. To me at least. My community has crumbled, but I walk among the ruins and remember.

my “readership” (snicker snicker) now consists of me (loyal as ever) and lots foreign bots, looking for ways to get into my site (hi bots!).

The bots know. how valuable and powerful the rantings and navel-gazing of a lonely girl can be. They know how vital my 20+ years of self-obsession are going to be for finally ending the American empire.

I’m still here.

How are there just four sleep positions? like, what the fuck is that. Side, side, back, stomach. I mean really just three since side and side are the fucking same.

We have been humans for how long now and we have figured out three hundred and eighty six different delicious ways to eat potatoes but we still have to choose between “side, side, back, stomach”?

It’s a load of horseshit is what it is

I bet rich people have other ways. Ways I can’t even imagine. God damn them. God damn it all.

Christa. It’s 2:15am. you can’t sleep. your feet are cold. Your back hurts. But you are definitely not hungry. you brushed your teeth! Do not get out of bed to go find some gross cold sad leftover from dinner. Do something else.

No. No. You’re too tired for twitter tonight. let’s be outraged tomorrow.

Instead how about we head over to miserable fucking Instagram. Even though he hardly ever posts, we still need to check. He seems happy. I’m glad. And don’t worry, I am sure he’s fine (although if he wasn’t we wouldn’t ever know would we). we can at least read his old messages. It’s okay to miss him. I’m glad he’s happy.

Alright enough of that, too sad. Let’s go instalurk on someone else.

Ooh yes. Him. He posts regularly. Lots of good stuff. It doesn’t look like he’s gotten sick. That’s good. And look how perfect his life is. Everything is wonderful, lovely, beautiful. He’s still funny, silly, smart. (Of course he is why would that have stopped?) Have a panic attack when you accidentally double tap and like a photo. Oh god. Oh god. What have you done. This is mortifying. Nothing left to do but burn your phone and jump off a cliff. Why did you have to try to zoom in? You know you can’t do that! Get the fuck off fúcking Instagram you stupid stupid whore.

You’re still not hungry so just forget about the box of Golden Grahams in the cupboard.

Just stay here in bed, okay? We can think about the new boy! He sure is cute. But so hard to read. how does he manage to come across as both genuinely interested AND completely apathetic? Let us obsess. Get all twisted up about it. go over the many varied ways you’re embarrassing yourself. Promise to stop embarrassing yourself. (But it is okay. we know it’s a false promise. I forgive you. You can’t help yourself can you. so it is okay.)

it isn’t going to go anywhere anyway. We know this. not only because it’s a pandemic. You don’t really want it to go anywhere. It’s much nicer and safer to be alone. less stressful. quieter. easier. We don’t like people. They are the worst, they ruin everything. We don’t need it.

And besides, we are gross. And we are at that age. Where we no longer exist, not in any real tangible way. we have ceased to matter. (did we ever matter? Maybe. maybe once upon a time.) our vagina is over forty! It’s now just a dried up withered old sack. Don’t mistake it for a prune or a raisin. It’s not!

RIP, cjm’s vagina.

So let’s stop thinking about new boy. DO NOT SEND HIM A PICTUR… God I hate you. Why did you do it? You’re sick. There’s something very wrong with you.

Fine. Go eat the fucking Golden Grahams. Nothing matters anyways who even cares.

Another night when I can’t fall asleep, despite being absolutely freaking exhausted from doing absolutely fucking nothing, for the millionth day in a row.

The end of January means that February will soon start. And after that, March. And then before you know it, it’s August again and then it’s winter and then it’s 2022 and then, finally, death.

In the meantime, we have this:

I believe that getting ginger was the best thing I’ve ever done, and also the dumbest. Why did I do it? And I’m so glad I did.