Dear Diary, my teen-angst bullshit now has a body count*

Ah, I've missed it here. The holidays were grand, but, oh, to be back among you, you vile, loathsome, evil little cockroaches. You complete me.

I wish I could say the same for my reviewee today. My welcome back, in that sense, leaves much to be desired. Because instead of starting 2009 with a blog to praise, an author to drape with laurels, and a new hope for the merits of bloggers worldwide, I get... well... this.

Sigh.

Brace yourselves. There's bad poetry. And prose poetry. With no attempt at using an apostrophe. Or capital letters. Or a dictionary. Or any sense.

Ov. Ov? Seriously? Fucker. No wait, it gets worse: gud. And wud. And ud. I just... I can't even get mad. Because it just depresses me so much. I know this is English as a second language and I'm dealing with a generation who learned to communicate in text pidgin, but Christ on a crutch, is this what the world is coming to? To paraphrase LB's daughter, I despair for her generation. And I despair for us if we're getting another round of emo Indian kids' blogs to review because, oh, the agony.

I suspect someone listens to a lot of Evanescence or maybe Lacuna Coil. And she calls herself a Nincompoop. And a loser. I mean, this is angst to the nth degree. It's dark (but kind of dark light, like gray, or maybe a middling purple, like it wants to be dark but doesn't know how), and silly, and juvenile, and pitiful, and woe is me, and melodrama, and OMG toadily (I'm fucking serious, y'all -- she wrote "toadily").

And what's worse is I can't understand a damn thing that's going on. There's no story. There's no revelatory information, no exposition, no nothing. I don't know who this girl is, aside from my assumption that she's young and depressed. I don't know what she likes, what she does, who her friends are, what she wants. It's just really bad poetry and really pathetic whining and really annoying mutilation of the English language. All on a black background with a huge ass header image that takes up too much space and meaningless doohickeys in the sidebar and it's just all a waste of time.

I hate to say that. I do. Because I suspect this girl just wants to let it all out, and I was an angsty teen, too, once, back when God was a boy and I had my own personal Jesus. But for shit's sake do it somewhere else, and don't subject the rest of the world to it. Password protect that drivel, put it in your bedside journal, or just write it on notebook paper and then wad it up and throw it away.

It's obvious she just posts when she's got some new angsty poetry to share, or when someone has broken her heart, or when the weight of it all (although what "all" is I haven't a clue because I can't understand every third word) gets to be too much, because there's just not a lot here. And that's probably a good thing.

This is not a blog. It's a regurgitation of emotion. And someone should clean that shit up before the rest of us get it on our shoes.








And here's a bandage for your boo-boos. Cheer the hell up.

*Heathers