Mother Summer Fucker: A Prologue

The summer of 2010 was the summer I nearly killed my blog.

Had she been a pet dog, she would have been emaciated and roaming local freeways, dodging cars in search of food scraps and a gentle hand. Had she been a feline, she would of been one of those flat cats you see on an episode of Hoarders. A forgotten skull crushed by boxes of useless shit and feasted on by it's own starving family. My blog is one of my kids, sitting in their pajamas and eating pizza for breakfast at 11:23 on a Friday morning, whining to go to the pool and hearing my mouth respond, "Please stop talking." My blog is homeless, sitting in her own piss with her jaundiced nails. Her sign says she will work for food but she's lying.

But I vacuumed yesterday which means that I'm not clinically depressed.

Back when I actually did feed my blog on a regular basis, played with her hair and called her Sugar, I wrote a post dissing Christmas Letters. I still think they're stupid (no disrespect to Suburban Kamikaze). My theory was based on the obvious -- who cares what I did all year and if you actually held any interest, you could check out my well-fed, much loved, always shaved above the knee blog.

But since this is the summer that my blog turned into a neglected, hairy little beast in desperate need of vaginal rejuvenation, I think I'm going to do the unthinkable and write a Summer Letter.

And all five people that still check in to see if Miss Spoken has dribbled anything out of her mouth will read it and love it and ask me to almost kill my blog every summer. Maybe even twice a year, which should actually happen on it's own but it never hurts to have cheerleaders.