All I ended up with is this

When first dreaming up this blog back during a Michigan summer, spent blown-out indoors on the internet and a couch with a sleeping Pug in anticipation of departure and in denial of recent familial tragedy, I imagined it to be obscurely insightful and witty with my tongue permanently adjacent to cheek. But, like everything I’ve attempted on the internet, it is mildly amusing and an egg in a carton of a dozen similar. I hoped my entries would be bitingly clever and my site frequented by the public’s intellectual upper echelon and various semi-famous Jewish comedians, whom I fancy-from-afar. Instead, this public internet diary documenting my stint in Europe has seemingly turned into something only my parents and their friends read, and a site my own friends have already forgotten about, losing out to myspace and the like.

But I cannot blame the public for my blog’s mediocre reception. Of the heap of weblogs readers have to choose from, mine has hardly a statement nor a theme, and definitely no cause. It makes sense, though, as the triteness of the blog suitably reflects its author. When the elections were going down a couple months ago, all the volunteers were abuzz over their states and candidates. As an American, I did my part; I read Google news to find out the final electoral outcomes. Yet, in actuality, I was more emotional over some other news I had read that day. Election day, we were sitting at separate computers, reading the news at the internet café, when my friend turned to me and exclaimed, “This is awesome, can you believe it?” to which I responded, “I know! Brit Brit and K-Fed are finally getting divorced!” and my friend sort of paused, blinked and was like, “I meant the Democrats taking over the House.” (or was it the Senate? Both? Listen, I’m in Moldova, give me a break.) And I responded, “Oh yea, yea sure, I read about that. But K-Fed sure is fucked now!! Right? Right!?” It’s really not attractive of me, I know, being this shallow. All the smart men have by now stopped reading, exiting out of my page thinking to themselves, “this JAP doesn’t even care about our (The Jew’s) party’s victory! How unattractive she is for being so shallow!” The dumb Jewish guys are still reading thinking to themselves, “I wonder if this girl will go on a date with me and if she puts out?” (Yes, and yes.)

Unfortunately, now it’s too late in the game to find a cause to write about for the sole purpose of generating more readers. Or is it? Maybe I could write a celebrity blog! Once every couple days, when I can get online, I would basically highlight what everyone else has already written about, as it’s sort of hard to be super current on Hollywood from Moldova, and I don’t have any actual celebrity connections. It would probably be a little behind, but wouldn’t that be neat? “Celeb-news: two days late, and third-hand!” Um, I love critiquing fashion like the next fag, but with this dial-up connection, pictures take forever to upload! The other problem is being a representative of a certain government agency, plus my lack of any sincere interest, hinders the possibility of writing a political blog. And everyone knows poetry and fiction writing is for the kids who loved My Little Pony too much or played Dungeons and Dragons while the other kids played sports or made-out with each other on the playground. (Guess what kid I was! Just guess!)

Speaking of making out, when I first got wind that my mom e-mailed everyone she’s ever known about my blog I was exasperated and was like “Mo-om! What if I wanted to write about a one-night-stand or something!?” Mom was like, “So write about a one-night-stand!” So with that, Mom, and mom-friends, and moms of friends, I finally had my first international, wait scratch that, first European, well, Eastern European, sexy rendezvous. I had a very nice time with a very sensitive and tender Moldovan gentleman*. He really made me feel like the delicate, American, womanly flower that I am. Except for right after when he kept tapping his cigarette ash into my hair, it was so romantic when we made beautiful music together for three whole minutes. He told me he “loving me and will giving to me many the sour cream, bread, and instant coffee my heart has to desiring.” I told him in my broken Romanian my father works for Ford and will send him a minivan. I don’t know if I’m jumping the gun saying this, but I think I’m finally fully-integrated, if you know what I mean. And I think you know what I mean. Fully. Integrated.

So where am I even going with this bullshit entry? What I do know is I’m drinking tea in a cup the size of my head. My host mom has prepared this special tea with plants she picked “not near where cars drive” that are supposedly supposed to cure this little cold that’s coming on. In addition to the tea, I’ve been taking anti-congestion meds, vitamin C, and sleeping a lot (not an unusual occurrence as is.) I’m feeling better already, and today we got water, the first time in four days, and I got to wash my hair, so life is good. (All day yesterday I couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like to be in America not having water in our apartment on Christmas. Oh my god, it would be so amazing to have the ability to call the water company and not only insist on their coming to fix the water situation but also be able to threaten not to pay if the problem isn’t solved. Oh America, your customer service policies are one of the reasons you hold super-power status, if not the only.)

I must now go read the new book I got in the mail, Solzhenitsyn’s “The Gulag Archipelago.” (Who’s shallow now, huh? Now you really wanna take me on a date and name our first-born son Saul.) I think reading books about the Soviet Union while living in the Former Soviet Union is like the best masturbatory activity I can do out here, short of actually doing that word I just said, because Lord knows I sure ain’t gettin’ enough action out here! I may have lead you, my two faithful readers, to believe I’ve copulated with a Moldovan gentleman out here, but I must now confess that I was fibbing. He actually ashed on my stomach, promised only sour cream, and was hardly a gentleman. Oof!

*The character playing the role of Moldovan gentleman in this entry may or may not really exist**.
**To protect reputation and to clarify, he most likely, really, is fictional and not to be taken seriously in any way. (Sorry to ruin the fun with these disclaimers, it pains me to write them just as it’s annoying to read them, but I’m here on official business and internet humor is never worth losing a job over.) (Unless it leads to bigger and better things, which I hardly doubt my writing is leading to. So yes, all in jest. God bless.)