So I woke up this morning, made some coffee, looked at the Internet, and found THIS:

Holy crap.

It’s been a year. I have had this blog for one year today.

Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? I am equal parts convinced that I just started this blog yesterday and also I have had this blog forever and always throughout all time.

Forgive the overt sentimentality of this post, but I’m feeling really grateful this morning. Maybe it’s just that I slept really well last night, maybe it’s just that it’s a lovely day outside, maybe it’s just that I secretly AM the kind of person who likes to listen to that Green Day song “Time of Your Life” while looking through old pictures from high school. (Ok, that last one isn’t true. I do draw the line somewhere).

It’s just that a year ago, I wouldn’t have considered myself a writer. Why would I? I hadn’t written anything other than a facebook status in years. I only started this thing because I got accidentally wasted and dyed my hair orange and the story was too good to keep to myself.

On one hand, not a whole lot has changed since that post. I’m still in the same city, in the same house, living with my same incredible roommates. I’m still working as a designer. I’m still bad about going to the gym. I’m still anxious about almost everything. Same old me.

Except that a lot actually has changed. In small and subtle ways. In big and exciting ways. In ways I couldn’t have predicted.

A year ago I would never have anticipated that I would meet someone for the first time who would say, “Oh, yes — I know you!” and jump into a conversation about something I’d written, even though we’d never met before. A year ago I wouldn’t have imagined that I’d be talking with tech bloggers from Australia, college students in California, poets from Idaho … and that I’d feel a connection to them, even though we’ve never met in person.

A year ago, I didn’t think I was funny. I didn’t think I was particularly interesting. If I’m being honest, I still don’t. I’m really not trying to humblebrag to fish for compliments — please, none of that shit today! — I’m telling you this because I still can’t even begin to wrap my brain around the idea that complete strangers actually think that what I have to say is worthwhile. I mean, holy crap. You’ve got to be kidding me. Someone else out there thinks that what I have to say is worth saying, and wants to listen. I can’t even begin to wrap my brain around THAT. That’s the most awesome thing in the history of awesome things. That’s more awesome than this And I think that squeaky frog is pretty freaking awesome.

A year ago I didn’t think of myself as a writer. Now I do. And a huge part of that has to do with You. (Yeah, You, You Reading This).

So — happy anniversary, Internet. Seriously. Thanks for reading. Thanks for listening. Thanks for writing, and sharing, and contributing to the all-out weirdness of whatever this thing is. I’ve loved sharing my brain with you, and I can’t wait for whatever next year brings.

 

xox

katherine

 

 

*Here’s what Wikipedia has to say on the subject of “First Year Anniversary”:

Chicago Public Librarians, I’m not sure who gave you the authority on this one, but we’ve got to do better than that. I don’t want a clock. Who the hell wants a clock as an anniversary present? If I was in a relationship and we made it a year and my fictional boyfriend was like, happy anniversary, babe, I got you something really special and it was a clock, I would smile and be grateful and say thank you but secretly think “I wish we could have just gone out for a nice dinner instead.” We have like three clocks in my house and none of them have batteries because the ticking noise drives me insane. They’re just decorative nonfunctional things to keep on the walls; if you want to know what time it is, you look at your phone like everyone else in America.

If I’m being super honest, I’m not sure if I really want paper OR cotton either. I definitely don’t want a clock made out of paper/cotton. No offense.

I DO kind of want cake. I think that’s a reasonable request.