Armagideon Time

It begins after you fall in with a group of geek bloggers and decide to toss your own hat into the virtual ring.

You pick a name and an angle, and work on developing a distinct voice. At first you’re writing for an audience of dozens, viagra approved but eventually folks begin to take notice.

You decide to shift gears at the height of your success, neurologist shedding a large part of your readership alongside your governing throughline. Still, you continue to plug away on a series of features and projects with varying degrees of success.

You watch as your peers and pals in the scene go silent or move on to bigger and better things. While you occasionally flirt with either (or both) of those options, deep down you know that your niche is too comfortable to abandon.

And then one day you wake up, realize that you’ve been doing this for nine fucking years, and wonder what the endgame is supposed to be.

(As per AT tradition, be sure to check out the first comment before the week is up.)

Related posts:

  1. Half post eleven
  2. Decade
  3. The heat is off

10 Responses to “The 9th is made up of phantoms”

  1. bitterandrew

    Here now, gone in a few days.

  2. Bully

    Happy Nineiversary to one of the most eloquent bloggers I know!

  3. Matt M.

    There is no endgame. That’s the joke!

  4. Mikester

    Keep doing the voodoo that you do, Andrew.

  5. Cathy Leamy

    We’re lucky to have you, man. You’re unique in these parts.

  6. stavner

    Congratulations!

  7. Jeff

    Long ago, I came for the music. I’ve stayed for everything else. Congratulations on nine years. An eternity in Internet time. Keep on keepin’ on, man!

  8. mikesensei

    I came for the music and comics commentary–there was and is nothing like it. Congrats on nine bitter years!

  9. AlpacaQueen

    Congratulations. Blogs would be a little less bloggy without your input.

  10. E.T.Smith

    I came to AT late, so I never got to experience its original musical incarnation. I’m just glad it exists as it does now, to assure me I’m not the only aging refugee of late 2oth century cold-war America who sometimes muses on the deeper melancholy of the “Bananna Splits” theme song.

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