A few weeks ago, Janna and I were in the car, talking about dementia and memory-loss in general, and I mentioned that one of the main reasons why I blog is because I am so goddamn scared of forgetting. I jokingly tweeted not too long ago that my #1 blogging tip is to blog like no one is reading, because probably no one is. But all joking aside, it’s true: I don’t blog because I want to be some creepy Internet celebrity and I certainly don’t expect anyone to give a shit about my life or what bands I’m currently into or what weird fruit I just ate. But some people do and I’m thankful for the friends I’ve made through my sloppily-typed words!
The point is that this is like a time capsule for me. So I do get stressed out occasionally when there is something that I want to blog about but haven’t found time and then before I know it, a month has passed and I find myself questioning if it’s even still worth it. The answer is yes. Memories are always worth it! Blah blah blah, you’ve read all of this before.
But the memory-aspect makes me think about Chooch. I know he might not see it this way right now, but someday, when he’s a grown-up, he might be happy that he guest-blogged on here about haunted houses or losing a raffle at the Hollywood Theater.
So lately, I have been trying to gently nudge him toward blogging here and there. I think in addition to helping him retain his memory, it also provides an outlet for him to constructively vent and express his opinion (which is what he did last night and then said he felt better after!), all while also being a valuable education tool. (Hello, spelling & stuff.) Chooch gets all huffy about it, and I don’t want to nag him like Henry nags me (oh god, even I couldn’t type that with a straight face), so I have found that a good way to go about this is promising to play Call of Duty: Ghosts with him.
He loves that game and I think it’s stupid.
I love blogging and he thinks it’s stupid.
So this is the trade-off: him asking me how to spell certain words and me asking him how to aim my fucking gun. Me playing Call of Duty is apparently so pathetic and hilarious, that Henry sometimes likes to sit there and watch as I murder the FUCK out of brick walls and the sky. Chooch likes to play “gun game,” which took me a long time to figure out means that you start with a shitty gun and then upgrade to better guns as you kill people. Except that it’s virtually impossible for me to get any kills with this gun because you have to get all up on your target and I can’t do that without getting a cap in my ass. So I sit there and bitch about it and then Henry will sometimes defend me by telling Chooch he’s being mean for making “making your mother play ‘gun game’l when everyone knows I suck too much to get a better gun.
Chooch thinks this is fucking hilarious and will laugh to the point of pants-pissing. And then he’ll say shit like, “I saw someone standing there and I got scared….then I realized it was just Mommy, HAHAHA” because I’m the furthest thing from a threat in this dumbass game. And then Chooch’s favorite part is the end where it shows everyone’s score and I’m always ranked last with zero kills and 618182 deaths (sometimes less if I can find a place to camp).
“It’s not my fault!” I cry. “What the fuck do you expect when I’m playing with Fisher Price: My First Gun?! It’s like goddamn Santa left it under the Xmas tree for me!” And then Chooch dies laughing but I’m really mad! He fucking cheats!
And then Henry yelled at me for saying I shot some guy in the dick and I was like “BUT I DID!” And he calmly said, “No. Another guy shot him. And then shot you.”
I am so awful at this game.
But then yesterday I was at work and I found myself THINKING ABOUT CALL OF DUTY. I really like the Mexican map with the pretty cemetery!
And then, the other night, Chooch asked me if he can just have his own blog.
WHAT IS HAPPENING TO US.