As of yesterday, I have been at this business of blogging for three years, and I still hate the word blog. I'd rather just say that I'm writing, I'm a writer, I self-publish, but everybody calls it a blog and verbifies the noun into the act of creating itself, and so I'll accept the tideswell and go with it.

Three years into it, and I feel I have to come clean, quit with the denial, and accept my status as one who has a blog and blogs on that blog. I am a blogger who blogs on a blog.

Come to think of it, the word blog behaves an awful lot like the word fuck. All we have to do is start using it as a descriptive word, and I might actually come to like it rather than just tolerate it's popularity. We can start saying things like That's blogging ludicrous. It's so blogging obvious that you shouldn't tell your boss about your blog. We can start using it demonstratively by yelling Blog this! and coupling it with a ripe flash of the middle finger.

If it became more rude, more functionally profane, I could get behind the word blog.

This is all off topic, though, because what I really wanted to talk about was how much this thing I do here has affected my life in meaningful ways.

Oh, shut up, it has.

I started it with the intent to get into the habit of writing more often, because I had nearly ceased writing altogether by 2003 and was worried that I was leaving the only passion I had ever had behind me out of laziness and a creatively devastating lack of self-confidence. Since my inaugural post, which I find personally embarrassing, I think I have written more over the past three years than during my entire life preceding them, and without the amazing support I have had from readers over this time, I don't know that I would have continued to write on my own.

When I began, I had pretty much convinced myself that my writing was a lost cause, that it would pass as a nice personal hobby, and decided that I had better find something else to do with my time. This thing called blogging, though, kept putting me in front of the computer and writing up posts, and before I knew it, my writing was improving, my creativity had branched out into photography, and I had even made a few friends. Hell, I've even been churning out the occasional poem again.

It lured me out of a creative wasteland, and although it doesn't always sound like it, I am a happier person for it.

So, on this, the three-year-and-one-day anniversary of my appearance on the internet, I want to thank you for reading "Milkmoney or Not, Here I Come" over the last 1,096 days.

And by "you", I mean all the people who have come here collectively since my first post, because my gawd, who else other than me could tolerate 1,096 straight days of me? Other than me, of course, because I'm bound to this meat puppet I inhabit and haven't figured out how to run the other way yet.

Places I've been recently: things magazine, Pruned, and the American Museum of Natural History Division of Paleontology Archived Field Photographs.