What Got Lost Somewhere Between the Music Videos

Somewhere along the way this journal stopped being personal. It happened gradually, the way rooms get messy. One day you’re writing about what you drank Saturday night and who you ended up in bed with and why your aunt’s white hat was objectively superior to the green one. Then you blink and the whole thing has become a mood board: music videos with bass drops, emotionally loaded photo essays, pictures of women with steel abs and freckles you’d need a magnifying glass to fully appreciate. Tasteful. Curated. Utterly bloodless.

Nobody asked for the upgrade. The personal stuff—the messy, embarrassing, this-is-what-actually-happened stuff—was always the point. That’s what separates a blog from a magazine. You’re not supposed to be professional about it. You’re supposed to spill.

So there’s a section on this site now called Backstage, which is where the unfiltered version lives: concert visits, holiday footage, whatever I’d never bother writing a proper piece about but that happened anyway and felt like something. Less produced. More like actually being there. I can’t promise it’ll be interesting. That’s sort of the whole idea.