I’m Christina. My parents gave me that name because they wanted to, on a bleak wintry day one January in 1994. The only January in 1994, to be exact. I was almost born in the passenger seat of a maroon-ish Ford F150 truck with rusted rims, a car I romanticize to this day. In fact, I just saw one pulling out of an ice cream store as I was driving to the bank this morning, and I did a serious rubberneck. It was the biggest snowstorm of the year, and my parents needed a police escort to get to the hospital.
Talk about an entrance, huh? Quite ironic, considering I often like to go as undetected as humanly possible. I’m getting better at being noticed, I think. “Coming to terms” with it rather, considering I have no choice what others do or don’t observe about me.
I’d be lying if I said I loved to write. I’m by no means a stunning, articulate writer. I have many writers I idolize, but could never compare to. David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Safran Foer, Barbara Kingsolver.. But that’s okay. I’m me. And I’m much better at writing than I am at speaking. (Another thing I’m working on).
I bet you’re thinking, “Why is she here, then? She doesn’t even like to write.” I guess I’m here because I feel stuck in a rut. A dry spell. Like I’m not creating anything of my own. It is both one of my greatest attributes and most debilitating flaws that I invest so much time in the lives of my loved and admired ones, that I lose a bit of myself in the process. This is my attempt at self-preservation, to combat the feeling that my essence is slipping away. Pretentiously poetic, no?
I’m eager for you to find that, at least in my own opinion, I am anything but that. So, hang in there, will you? I’m going to post a whole lot of nonsense, maybe some recipes, my opinions on music and television, and some feelings. Because I’ve never been stellar at doing that anywhere else except whilst hiding unassumingly behind a screen.
It’s a pleasure not to make your acquaintance. I wish I could say differently, but chances are I’ll never know you read this, or perhaps even get to meet you. Pleasant browsing, nonetheless. And thanks very kindly for dropping by. I hope you find something that tickles you or makes you smile.