Meh
I'm totally over blogging. Over it. J-Lo over it. Trucker Hat over it.
I look at the blank page, and there is no longer that overwhelming urge, nay, need to pour my guts onto it. I don't have a lot to say. And I'm feeling pressure that the 34 people out there who read it are going to abandon me if I don't come up with something witty or insightful (note the implication that to date I have, in fact, been witty and insightful. Ha!).
And yet I continue to do it. Why? Who knows? I don't know why I do half the shit I do (Note To Self: Self, why did you get your navel pierced in 2001? And those man-capri pants you bought in Australia? What was going on there? Just asking.).
I'm certain that you're all dying to see pictures of my renovated apartment, to find out if I ever sober up, find love, leave New York, get a decent job, stop whining, find Jesus, get it together, get over Bartender, discover the meaning of life, actually learn to say no to people, go broke, fullfill my New Year's Resolutions, stick with kabbalah, learn the tango, forgive my mother for leaving my father, or drop dead of a massive stroke at age 27.
And you will.
Because, like all bloggers, I have a self-absorbed need to bare my soul to complete strangers.
Of late, things have actually been going so smoothly (This is the point where, much like homer Simpson's my brain just said "Way to go, asshat. Jinx yourself when you're finally on karma's good side. Bra-vo. "*slow clap*), and I don't have as much to bitch about. Or maybe I've got a different perspective.
Sister has moved out, the apartment is painted and the new furniture is on the way. Work is so calm that I spend most of my days reading blogs and talking on the phone.
And while my parents incredibly abrubt separation three weeks ago and pending divorce has threatened to turn my life as a 26 year-old attorney into an afterschool special, it hasn't. In point of fact, I can't even get that worked up over it.
So maybe it is a perspective thing.
Maybe it's an older and wiser thing.
I thought people were supposed to get edgier the longer they went without sex, and yet the longer I go, the better I'm feeling... Oh dear lord what if it was the sex that was making me a complete asshole? What if the only way I'm centered and happy is without physical contact?
Then so be it: I'm going to be an asshole for the rest of my life.
I mean, I like being all nice and stuff. But seriously, Fuck That.
I look at the blank page, and there is no longer that overwhelming urge, nay, need to pour my guts onto it. I don't have a lot to say. And I'm feeling pressure that the 34 people out there who read it are going to abandon me if I don't come up with something witty or insightful (note the implication that to date I have, in fact, been witty and insightful. Ha!).
And yet I continue to do it. Why? Who knows? I don't know why I do half the shit I do (Note To Self: Self, why did you get your navel pierced in 2001? And those man-capri pants you bought in Australia? What was going on there? Just asking.).
I'm certain that you're all dying to see pictures of my renovated apartment, to find out if I ever sober up, find love, leave New York, get a decent job, stop whining, find Jesus, get it together, get over Bartender, discover the meaning of life, actually learn to say no to people, go broke, fullfill my New Year's Resolutions, stick with kabbalah, learn the tango, forgive my mother for leaving my father, or drop dead of a massive stroke at age 27.
And you will.
Because, like all bloggers, I have a self-absorbed need to bare my soul to complete strangers.
Of late, things have actually been going so smoothly (This is the point where, much like homer Simpson's my brain just said "Way to go, asshat. Jinx yourself when you're finally on karma's good side. Bra-vo. "*slow clap*), and I don't have as much to bitch about. Or maybe I've got a different perspective.
Sister has moved out, the apartment is painted and the new furniture is on the way. Work is so calm that I spend most of my days reading blogs and talking on the phone.
And while my parents incredibly abrubt separation three weeks ago and pending divorce has threatened to turn my life as a 26 year-old attorney into an afterschool special, it hasn't. In point of fact, I can't even get that worked up over it.
So maybe it is a perspective thing.
Maybe it's an older and wiser thing.
I thought people were supposed to get edgier the longer they went without sex, and yet the longer I go, the better I'm feeling... Oh dear lord what if it was the sex that was making me a complete asshole? What if the only way I'm centered and happy is without physical contact?
Then so be it: I'm going to be an asshole for the rest of my life.
I mean, I like being all nice and stuff. But seriously, Fuck That.
posted by Dxx at 3:24 PM
Woah! Big post!
Please stay continuing telling us small people on the other side of the big pond (well me) all about whats goin' on with you.
The urge to blog (and the ability) comes and goes but we will always be here!
Oh and no pressure! ha!
If you stop blogging, where else shall I go for PopeWatch?
Don't do it for me, do it for the pope.
Well, now you have to keep blogging. The Pope, dude!
I get the blah for the blogging thing. Totes. Sometimes, it just doesn't appeal.
Older? Si. Wiser? That depends on whether we're stoned or drunk.
xoxo, baby.