Blog Identity Crisis

Hello friendship.  

Let me be straight with you. Straighter than a ruler edge. I’m going to stop there, because I would otherwise be bordering on offensive.

But, like I said, I need to be honest. My blog, as of late, has felt like effort. I’ve just realised in saying ‘I need to be honest with you’ I’m deluding myself into thinking these posts get read. But the irony is that I will read this back in a few months so technically, I’m talking to myself. So maybe it should be directed to future me.


Now, moving along from blowing my own mind, I do need to be straight up honest. With who I do not know. You? My one blog viewer? My future self? Jesus? Yes sis.

But writing on this blog has felt effortful. I don’t know why. I got to a point ages ago where I couldn’t keep writing blog posts. It was a mixture of having to move it back on the planner of life due to work, driving lessons, studying...other interests but mostly, stress. And I’ve said before on this blog - on posts that are no longer live to read - that when I get stressed, I don’t get creative. Which is unbelievably frustrating when previously, my response to such situations has been to create. Whether that be to paint, to write, to make dumb videos with my sister or to blog.

And asides from that, I think I got to a point where I had changed as a person maybe. I mean, these posts I’m referencing are at this point 3 years old. So yes, of course I’ve changed as a person. And no. I’m not still learning to drive. So I probably shouldn't have listed that.

But among losing drive for Mirth Box, I’ve not written novel style stuff in over a year and a half, I've just recently - in the last two weeks - started getting interested in things like painting again and only really started being inspired in the last few months. Hence the kind of boring, inconsistent and weird blog posts.

But here’s the problem. I loved when my blog was driving traffic. I loved getting comments and interacting with internet friends on the internetosphere. I just had changed as a person and was kind of lost in this sea of smelly flatulence and bad piano sounds.

I think that lost feeling stemmed from two factors. Firstly, what even is Mirth Box? It’s hard to define. If somebody walked up to me on the street - preferably clothed - and said to me (hopefully brandishing a microphone with game show music playing ominously from their hindquarters) “So, Jar. Just what is ole’ Mirth Box about?” And I would think about it. Glance over my shoulder at Mirth Box who would effeminately wave back and wink for some reason and just think. For like, a minute. And then I would turn back to the streaker game show host and shrug. Because, dude, I do not know. And it’s hard, knowing what to write. Producing consistent content when you aren’t even sure what the identity of your blog is. Secondly (remember I said two factors you silly sausage) I kind of got to a point where I think I was a sheep. Embarrassing as it is to admit I wanted to have an aesthetic blog with cute, cool content. Living my life (that’s not even relevant). And that was a mistake for me. Because if Clarke’s shoes taught me anything (other than that their school shoes for kids are pretty poorly made considering most children don’t look after school shoes - myself included at that age - and generally used them for like hosting tea parties for ants) it’s that like my 11 year old self being told I had bizarrely wide feet for my age, wanting to fit into something that isn’t going to fit you purely because everyone else is and it looks cool (like those darned Clarke’s shoes with the toys in the heel. I got them anyway. Hurt like a dirty whore. Plus the heel compartment leaked and the head of the doll fell off) if it doesn’t fit or suit you, you shouldn’t do it.

And I know that paragraph was frightful at best. But if you made it through then thank you. Because what I’ve learnt is that as much as I think individuality is cool and amazing and interesting as ice cream. As much as individuality makes you a heckin’ marvel, a fabulous reindeer of life and basically the most elegant dancing bug I’ve ever seen, I cannot for the life of me follow my own advice.

A question I put out in the car earlier today ‘how much money would someone have to pay you to eat a whole bag of the flavouring they put on crisps?’. Ben’s response? A grand. I’d probably do it for free just to see what it’s like. But ask me, ‘hey Jess, would you be yourself for a million pounds from now for the rest of your life?' I’d say hell yeah hunty. But would I? Would I heck.

And that’s what I need to takeaway from whatever in the world this blog post is. I may want to be aesthetic with a cute blog and cool content and stuff, but if what I am is loud, disorganised, often gassy, occasionally delirious and always hungry then that’s what I got to do. I got to be me. Otherwise other stuff suffers. Like my blog.

Honestly, this post was as messy as my own comprehension of it. All I’m saying is I need to do the stuff that screams me (but not like, actually farting in public. That’s bad for all involved). Cause otherwise, who’s gonna read?

Au Revoir my internet babies.

Make somebody happy this day and tell your amazing pets hello from me.

More later,


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