Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Today's breakfast at Ho, Ho, Ho's involved Irish gangsters and very bland scrambled eggs.
...I would continue on with my fairy tale-like morning, but my mind seems to be focused on other things. I was reading the writings of another fellow blogger, and the question of "Why do I write in this blog?" seemed to be asked over and over again in my head. I mean, what's the point? I'm sure this is all out of laziness, and for some reason things seem to flow more freely from my fingertips when I am typing, rather than writing. But why is it that I am so easy going about plastering my thoughts across the internet for all eyes to see? What do you lurkers get out of reading this? I mean you can read all you want, but what does it mean to you? It's like analyzing a poem or novel..or WHATEVER, you can interpret all you want, but you will never fully understand. I don't enjoy the thought of people tearing apart my words to fit their meaningless interpretation of my pathetically written life. STOP READING THIS! You'll never understand!!!!
..I suppose I should ask myself the same question, why do I read the online journals of others? I guess at times the life of others fills the void in my life, which lasts about 5 minutes, but it's as if....well, it's hard to explain. I am like a leech. Though other times, it's more of a way to connect with others, to have some sort of communication with them which lacks in the outside world.
...I should just shut up right now. Perhaps I should continue on about the Irish gangsters, who were fascinating beyond belief. Well, I am exaggerating, and they really weren't Irish gangsters, but we can pretend, can't we? I think for the rest of the week I'll just remain silent...again. It never works.
Well, I have lost interest in actually fulfilling the purpose of writing in here. I suppose I'll scribble down my leftovers in my leather bounded journal. Oooh aah.
...I would continue on with my fairy tale-like morning, but my mind seems to be focused on other things. I was reading the writings of another fellow blogger, and the question of "Why do I write in this blog?" seemed to be asked over and over again in my head. I mean, what's the point? I'm sure this is all out of laziness, and for some reason things seem to flow more freely from my fingertips when I am typing, rather than writing. But why is it that I am so easy going about plastering my thoughts across the internet for all eyes to see? What do you lurkers get out of reading this? I mean you can read all you want, but what does it mean to you? It's like analyzing a poem or novel..or WHATEVER, you can interpret all you want, but you will never fully understand. I don't enjoy the thought of people tearing apart my words to fit their meaningless interpretation of my pathetically written life. STOP READING THIS! You'll never understand!!!!
..I suppose I should ask myself the same question, why do I read the online journals of others? I guess at times the life of others fills the void in my life, which lasts about 5 minutes, but it's as if....well, it's hard to explain. I am like a leech. Though other times, it's more of a way to connect with others, to have some sort of communication with them which lacks in the outside world.
...I should just shut up right now. Perhaps I should continue on about the Irish gangsters, who were fascinating beyond belief. Well, I am exaggerating, and they really weren't Irish gangsters, but we can pretend, can't we? I think for the rest of the week I'll just remain silent...again. It never works.
Well, I have lost interest in actually fulfilling the purpose of writing in here. I suppose I'll scribble down my leftovers in my leather bounded journal. Oooh aah.
