Today, I have felt blogsick.
Faced with the prospect of either a) tidying the room b) eating an entire tub of vanilla ice-cream or c) preparing for tomorrow, I have taken the sensible decision and sat here with a spoon whilst browsing the web - a distraction to ensure that I don't in fact finish the full litre of cornish sweet goodness and instead find a new way to procrastinate.
By chewing over the backlog of my former self? Sounds like a perfect way to similtaneously dwell miserably on the past while taking up enough time to avoid doing anything useful and pass the minutes until I can pretend to pay attention to something else or go to bed.
Seventeen. I started when I was seventeen. To be honest, I don't think it's that much different to now, other than I cater to a different audience, alter my style as I see fit. It's funny how easily people get lost in the click-to-click - there's been so many effective strangers who once knew so much about me, yet shrugged off suddenly or gradually and never seen again. Someone once mentioned to me how this way of life is a substitute - filling a gap for something that's missing in your personal life. It's very true. Once you feel complete otherwise, there's no need to have your woes and views appreciated by the wider wash of passing visitors who neither really know nor care who you are and what you do, but are more just looking for a way to occupy a dull evening.
This is not the end. It's fairly obvious it's not going to go from one-a-day to none-a-month overnight. It's not over, but it's twenty-one-forty and I have some place I'd rather be.
On the jukebox: Regina Spektor ~ The Call
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