More than this
Monday, May 29, 2006, 1:27 PM


Sometimes I wish I was anonymous so I could write the things I really want to write.

Bare all without fear of consequence or embarrassment.

I have a hilarious story about Friday afternoon and the maintenance man, how I began the day yesterday and how I ended it, but there's no way I can share those things because I'm of the easily embarrassed type and because people who know me are reading.

Now don't let your dirty minds run amok. I didn't have sex with him. Besides, I have a rule about having sex with a man: I have be in love with him first. (I think I should modify it a bit more to include the part about how he should also be in love with me, but ... then again, maybe not.)

I'm not interested in writing the uncensored bare-all offline. How boring. No audience with which to share the laughs, no hit meter to provide the proof that what I've written interests anyone but me, no commenty instant gratification.

I'm a horrible writer. These things shouldn't matter at all. That they do probably spells out the reason why I'm still struggling as a writer. I can't even think of a title for this post because like usual, I'm all over the place, no cohesion, no structure.

That's like, whoa. Deeper than I wanted to go.

Still, I know writing [the hilarious and embarrassing thing I unhinged-like feel compelled to write publicly] won't solve any of the world's ills, let alone mine, won't make a difference in someone else's world, and probably wouldn't fill me with any more fruity flavor than writing this now. Most blog entries are a fleeting thing, like feelings of the moment are. We write what we are meant to write and then we're busy living life again. Love doesn't really last and people come and go from your life.

I wish I'd forget about it.

I've thought of starting over anonymously more than once. I can't really do that, though, because I know a few of you would be disappointed and so I'd take those few of you with me (which would blow my anonymity and keep me from writing the thing with the thing in the thing so I could face you the next time we traded smiles), or I'd have to maintain two blogs.

I'd rather go to the dentist than do that.

I tried writing more than one blog once back in AOL Journal Land and, well, that was a complete flop and made me feel like dung heap failure. Life is tough enough without those pesky feelings. So is writing. So if I'm going to do any extra of it, it should damn well be on the novel I've been working on since the age of 32.

I can't wait for tomorrow's pep talk.
7 Did the Unhingey Jiggy Engage in Unhingenosity
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .