Today marks the third time in six months that I have, at other’s requests, removed a post from this blog. The Ghost Post—like its twin predecessors—was deemed to be “Too Hot for the Haus” by people I love IRL.
And while I may be good at quite a few things—Re: googling my own name, eating organic raisins, or fawning over boys who wear makeup, I’m really no good with apologies.
Because seriously, I *heart* every word I write. And I don’t know about you, but I think this blog kicks a$$. Plus it’s totally saved my life … like three times.
… But actually that life-saving thing isn’t true. But what is true, what is so very real, and what I would shout from the rooftops if I weren’t afraid of heights is this:
More than pixels and fonts and an electronic framework, this blog is a love letter. And it’s written to commemorate my life.
Even with all its shit-talking irreconcilable bitchiness.
And sometimes I include things about people I hold dear, my mother or father, sister or ex-boyfriend, because—like veins converging at the heart—their stories are often inextricably intertwined with mine.
And I’ve probably been insensitive a time or two or twenty. But it’s just that I don’t think what I write on the Internet should be a cause for offense.
The Internet is not the Real World after all; it’s simply the Real World Wide Web.
When people freak about something I post or tell me a story sucks, I take it personally. Seriously, I’ve spent many-a-sleepless-night wondering “did I go too far with that diarrhea diatribe?”(Undoubtedly, the answer to this question is yes.)
This worry about self-censorship, about always being so-funny-Haw-knee has made me wishy washy.
Sometimes, like today, I feel I should stop causing myself the grief.
I think maybe, just maybe, I should stop blogging.
And this thought makes me incredibly sad. I hope it makes you sad too.
So I’ve done some reflecting and I know I can’t quit this blog. It’s my retarded child—sure its kind of effed up, but I’m so totally in love with it that sometimes I just wanna cry.
Yes, I am that lame.
Now I’m not a big fan of making rules. After all, I’ve been a Rebel with a Clause all my life. But today I’m going to set some.
From here on out, anything that gets posted to the haus stays on the haus. Although I will attempt to exercise restraint for those folks who don’t want the world to know they hooked up with a Thai stripper (Hi G!), I will no longer remove any posts, period.
I won’t even remove the crappy ones … and there are quite a few of those.
If you don’t like what I’m posting, I encourage you to fight back. Start your own blog. You can call it “STFUHANNI!!!” and you can use it to berate me, via your keyboard, on a fort-nightly basis.
In concluding this post, I would just like to remind you, dear hannihaus readers, that my blog is meant to tickle your gigglebone and does not (typically) cause headache, nausea, vomiting, or oily anal discharge.
That is all.
Somebody who reads this blog is an evil genius … and he totally sent me that link.
I don’t know about you, but after posting this shit, a drink sounds really good. Why don’t you pick one for me? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar.