But I am writing more, I thought, as we discussed hobbies and how I just "don't do them". They end up as scrawled little messages on appropriate things, like four or six different notebooks (since I'm absent-minded and tend to forget them, you see), Post-Its, or emails to myself, borrowed sheets of clean (or half-clean) papier, or anything really that can hold a vent or muse or bullshit.
I write about all I know. Narcissism. And it's fuckin' fine. I write about myself--my thought processes, what I'm looking at, who I'm looking at, what they should be doing in this situation but aren't because they're dumb-fucks, words of advice to those without my common sense, apologies to those I've hurt and not really cared enough to fix, my life plan that exists of nothing but risk and boredom and excuses and desire. Man....I could write on an on about myself. Welcome to life. We all fucking do it. This blog about this passion, this photo-evangelist who has pictures only of their own style (tee-hee, yeah you can copy me), political preservationists and righteousness and-- AWESOME!!! We have advice. Don't say no one ever taught you how to do ________.
But loving yourself is hard to learn from.
So anyway. I write. I tap keys or scrawl up and down with a pen. And if you didn't know, yes I am fucking particular about my pen. I like dark, black, intentional. No Bic. I have yet to find a Bic.
This entry isn't for documenting. I guess it's a nod at acknowledging. I DO love writing. About myself, of course, but words.....are my enigma. I saw a show tonight--an art show (bwahahahahaha that sounds awesome reading out loud), with a poster that said "You Are Nowhere". The beautiful thing that only seemed to impress me (I secretly hope that others were secretly as giddy) was that it read "You Are Now Here".....with arrows and juxtapose whatever it was solid. I loved it. I wanted it. No, I wanted to think I thought of it first. I love words. It's all perception and this is your playground or your forte or who knows? Who cares? I love it. I love it all.
Now to wait. 24 hours. I think. Tapping of a foot won't help. Passing out will. I'm going to. It brings tomorrow. And then I'm happy all through and through. For 54 more.
