XVI

Okay everybody (literally zero people), I think I've reached the point in my life where my idealism has died enough for me to come to terms with my own shortcomings and creative limits. It's become clear that I'm not good at updating this thing regularly, and I think that has to do with three main things.

One: I was under the assumption that whenever a particularly interesting or humorous idea popped into my head, I would make a note and then post it up here, hopefully having the wherewithal to extrapolate that mote of information into a diatribe long enough to warrant a blog post. This is impractical. I have tens of thousands of notebooks all over the place that are filled with fragments of thoughts that if found and read by the proper authorities, would most likely land me in Levenworth. Most recently, a list titled "White People Problems" with two bullets underneath it reading "ran out of cookie straws" and "addicted to oxycontin", and a page that just has the words "Pillow Technology" on it. I don't know where either of those ideas were going, and frankly I don't really want to. Point being for better or worse none of those things ended up on here.

Which brings me to point two: I'm a lethal combination of forgetful and self-conscious. Half the time I would just forget to post the stuff on here, and the other half I would wait too long, re-examine what I had written, and realize that it was stupid bullshit and who the fuck was I to assume that anyone would want to read it. I can't seem to get my head around the conceit that people want to read meaningless shit about other people's lives, even though I spend a lot of time reading meaningless shit about other people's lives. In fact a lot of writing in general falls under that umbrella, with the additional fact that most autobiographical writing is written by people who have had interesting lives (or at least can fake it). Actually, even non-autobiographical fiction (to the extent that it exists) deals with that conceit, in some ways even more so, because you're reading about the life of some character that doesn't even exist in the real world. Again though, that subject matter, regardless of how seemingly meaningless it is, is interesting when done well. I don't want to get into a one sided discussion about the importance of fiction, lest I begin to resemble the man that walks to the library by himself, muttering and carrying armfuls of books, so I will stop. To sum up: I forget that this conduit to the etherweb exists sometimes, and when I do remember, I often convince myself that I have nothing worthwhile to add.

Lastly, three: I'm pretty sure no one reads this, partly because of my chaotic posting regimen, and partly because the blog doesn't really cater to a specific interest. It's not a food blog, it's not a fashion blog, it's not a tech blog, it's not a travel blog, and it doesn't have porn on it, thus it is aimed at no one in particular. But it's also aimed at everyone in particular. But no one in particular seems to read it, save a few friends. So even though updating regularly is not hard work, screaming into the void about nothing in particular while hearing nothing back does resemble insanity (something I tend to shy away from).

Thus, I'm going to try to update every Monday. Sean is funny on Monday.