As you can see I haven't blogged in months and have yet to really blog anything of substance, as if I would want to do that. I have been slow to recognize the word "blog" as an action verb anyway, but they used to say the same about "pork."
Similarly, I am slow to embrace new technology and blogging isn't even really new anymore, but I continued to make mixed tapes until 2005. ("Crimson and Clover," "So Alive" were on my standard nookie mix- kidding- sort of)
Those who know me know that I have been writing my whole life and will continue to do so whether I ever get paid to or not. I have kept a journal as long as I could write. It's a perverse and disturbing trail of Jack Torrence-like rants, repressed Catholic smutty thoughts and insufferable abstract poems that are really about food or sex anyway. Its scrwaled across about 50 bent spiral notebooks that I don't even know where the hell they are.
You would think that I would naturally be blogging out of this but I always thought they canceled each other out. A journal after all is completely free since no one ever reads it. So what point is a blog? Well ultimately, writing something that no one will read is just mastubatory and cowardly anyway. In other words I didn't want to blog because I didn't want to write anything that was less than honest and if I truly revealed the inner-most thoughts of my concious, I simply wouldn't have friends anymore. I feel like I have to be so damn neutral on my Facebook page or risk being stuck in a healthcare debate with some neanderthal townie I haven't seen in 20 years. (Sometimes I think all of this is unnatural and we are disrupting natural social order of things by not leaving the past in the past, but that's a separate post)
In the end, I know that truth is subjective and fluid anyway, and this hopefully will be a tad less self-indulgent than my journal (though plenty self-indulgent, in case you forgot who you were talking to) I suppose to, we can safely conclude that I overthought this and pretty much everything else.