My Secret Shame

I have a secret shame.

It is not that I am a pedophile, necropheliac, or republican. I now have a blog. To me a blog is like a 26 year old writing a memoir out of the honest belief that s/he has something interesting to say. There are exceptions, Augusten Burroughs, Dave Eggers, Jewel and her book of poetry (OK that was low, I haven't read her book, but for God's sake she is famous for yodelling).

I take some comfort in that very few people will read this. You being the exception and frankly, I will save you some time. Go play outside.

No really.

I have a hard time justifying why I am spending my time writing my thoughts into a computer.

The best guess that I have come up with is that I will never, ever keep a diary, until now. This is sort of like pretending that G.I. Joe is not a doll. It's not a fashion doll (though now that you mention it...Snake Eyes would be fetching in evening wear) but they are a damn doll. And this, my friend is a journal.

My capacity for self-destruction however indicates that I must now keep a journal. Why? Because everybody else is doing it. Here is the other problem everybody I know who keeps a blog (read: everybody) is a much MUCH better writer than I (for the love of everything I am married to she-whose-bike-was-stolen) so I am very self-conscious.

so? Come here often?

This is awkward.

Only somebody with a firmly established capacity for self-destruction, would argue with himself, in public, about whether or not the vehicle for his own self-destruction is self-destructive.

Anyway. I am off to go reflect some more. And what was it they said about the unexamined life?