Woman Is Sipping Wine and Writing Silly Things

I'm sitting on my bed with a glass of wine and a belly full of perfectly cooked seafood pasta. The candles are lit, and the vibes are on. An episode of Shrinking to accompany tonight's dining experience, and now that that's over, I figured I might go ahead and create an account on a new(ish?) writing platform. Slightly tipsy, moderately stoned, I'm loving how low the stakes are here.

Using Wrizzit on the web feels like being 14 again, posting on Tumblr (complimentary) from the family computer because I didn't have a smartphone back then, so apps weren't the default. In my attempts to figure out how this new land of opportunities works, I notice how fiction-oriented it is, and because I'm a crazy bitch, I choose to see it as a sign to finally take a crack at writing poetry and maybe - no, hear me out - just maybe I'll even share it here someday.

But not today. Today, I'm having fun. I'm spamming scribbles. I'm casually exchanging comments with (one of) the creator(s) of this platform like I'm VIP. It's no big deal. (It's a big deal.) I'm playing with fonts, settling on something called IM Fell French Canon for my first post. The "French Canon" part feels like it adds a lot of chic to this most unedited of posts, and because I'm new here and everyone else is new here, no one needs to know how un-chic I actually am.

And for my final trick, before hitting "Publish," I think I'll go and pick Culture as the subject of this post - just to feel something. This is a different kind of culture, though. Not the Renaissance or Wuthering Heights kind, but the kind that follows no formula. The kind that an average, down-to-earth everywoman (or man!) might relate to, maybe even chuckle at it once or twice.

And with that, she logs off.