A little close to the vest
Until recently my blog entries tended to be fairly personal.
That's changed.
I've found that lately I'm more inclined to keep things to myself, even offline.
I don't know why.
Even now, I can barely think of anything I want to write about. It's not that my life has gotten boring. Take the past week as an example.
It was the 'week from hell' with a major assignment due in every class.
Friday the girls downstairs had a cozy little 'unparty', complete with flickering candles and Pocky for men.
After putting in a solid appearance and drinking rye like water there, I made the trek with Jer down to Sneaky Dee's at College & Bathurst. I was a happy mess before the night was half done.
"You were LOAD-ED!" Christen said last night.
In defiance of my zombie hangover the next day, I ran stairs and watched the new Dawn of the Dead. It freaked me out so much that I chained the door and cursed myself for not having my billy club here in the city.
As you can see, I'm still doing stuff. The potential for amusing or telling anecdotes is rich, but the desire just isn't there.
That's changed.
I've found that lately I'm more inclined to keep things to myself, even offline.
I don't know why.
Even now, I can barely think of anything I want to write about. It's not that my life has gotten boring. Take the past week as an example.
It was the 'week from hell' with a major assignment due in every class.
Friday the girls downstairs had a cozy little 'unparty', complete with flickering candles and Pocky for men.
After putting in a solid appearance and drinking rye like water there, I made the trek with Jer down to Sneaky Dee's at College & Bathurst. I was a happy mess before the night was half done.
"You were LOAD-ED!" Christen said last night.
In defiance of my zombie hangover the next day, I ran stairs and watched the new Dawn of the Dead. It freaked me out so much that I chained the door and cursed myself for not having my billy club here in the city.
As you can see, I'm still doing stuff. The potential for amusing or telling anecdotes is rich, but the desire just isn't there.
I've often wondered about this, why most of my friends either update sporadically or eventually lose their taste for the blog, and yet I never do.
I've come to the conclusion that I'm a compulsive writer (not that this is somehow better than not being one). After all, as Leo Rosten said, "The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can't help it."
Posted by
Ian |
Monday, December 13, 2004 5:44:00 p.m.