Eight Goddamn Years

Today is the eighth anniversary of The WAMBAG’s first post.

(Actually, it was last Thursday, but I am writing this post as if I had actually remembered this site’s anniversary for once, and wasn’t writing about my supergay dreams instead. Indulge me, please.)

Ah, what a wonderful Thursday it is, today.

I never know what to write for these posts…even drawing attention to it seems overly self indulgent and shameful for some reason. Regardless, every year I feel obligated to acknowledge the fact that this site has become another year older. I go back over all the previous anniversary posts, partly to reminisce and to find perspective anew for another year…but really mostly to see if I can just copy and paste previous chunks so that I don’t need to write something new.

But we’ve never really had a problem with not having anything to write about, have we? Eight years of this now. Eight years of…what? Something to be proud of or something that should shame us? I really don’t know. There’s no answer. The WAMBAG is purposeless. That has been our mandate from Day One, and so it will continue to be. Without purpose, there is nothing to accomplish, no goal to reach. And so there will never be a standard to exceed or to disappoint. All that can be said about The WAMBAG is that it exists.

I think that’s why I always have difficulty remembering this date and its significance – though I honestly have trouble even remembering my own birthday. People around me are always more interested in celebrating it than I ever am. Another year older, unchanged. Another year to come, likely the same as the last. No proud past accomplishments to commemorate, no exciting prospects to look forward to. Is this something to celebrate? Is this something even worth drawing attention to? Maybe there’s a reason I always forget about the first nine days of August, year after year after year.

I remember hitting the three and four year milestones and thinking about how ridiculous it was that we had gone that long already…and now we’re at eight years, still doing the same things. This is an extremely old blog, especially in Internet Years. And exceptionally well updated too (although never with exceptional content) for a personal blog with no readership. But perhaps it wouldn’t be completely fair to compare this site with just any personal blog…I mean, it is after all a group blog, with five separate authors all sharing the posting equally.

I mean it’s not like there’s just one guy posting over and over and over and over and over again like most blogs, right?

I have realized now, after years and years, that this will just never stop. There is no external force that acts on this blog, no force holding it in place or driving it forward. This is a completely internally driven, closed system…this is a perpetual motion machine in blog form. Eight years? Wake me up when we hit 20 and we’re still putting stuff up here during respites in the Cyber Zombie Apocalypse. Long after the stars burn out and the queens stop questing and the orange stops toasting…The WAMBAG will stand. It will stand unchanged year after year. It will continue to stand for nothing and will accomplish nothing and it will ask for nothing in return.

And year after year, I will still forget its anniversary. I am rather fond of this hole in my memory, and I don’t feel the need to change this.

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to
You would cry too if it happened to you

Reply

About

Destined to fight the world's evil, The WAMBAG endures massive battles involving impossible stunts, races on horse-pulled carriages, and the desecration of enchanting medieval castles (all done with dizzying computer graphics). Not only does the eye candy keep on coming, the tongue-in-cheek writing and deep Transylvanian accents perfect the film with a dose of dark humor.

Search

Subscribe

Atom, RSS 1.0, RSS 2.0 - no idea what the difference is.

Tagboard (!?!)

Apparently PHP7 doesn't support the same function calls I wrote in 2008? I should fix this at some point.

Recent Posts

Archives