Someone recently very kindly pointed out to me that blogs occasionally contain some personal information about the author and their daily lives. This voyeuristic quality apparently makes it fun to quietly watch them go about their business while getting a peek into their brain.
This of course was a nice but passive aggressive way to let me know that me and my life are not at all present in the things I write.
Sure, occasionally I like to fume over the mindless jaywalker who stepped into oncoming traffic while I was on the road or reveal the horrifying incident at the Chipotle that took place only hours after my young son learned that ladies did in fact have vaginas instead of wieners but for the most part I leave my day-to-day happenings at the doormat when I step over the WordPress threshold.
After so many years of working diligently to not be vulnerable, needy or a pain in somebody elses ass, I’d almost forgotten how brilliant it is to see a person write something stripped down and bare enough that it makes them look completely human.
I’m not exactly sure when vulnerability and truth fell so out of fashion in my mind but there are days when all this autonomous droning about impersonal subjects and flaunting my “independence” gets tedious.
To exert so much energy in opposition to what I really feel at times is exhausting. It’s a struggle that results in exactly what I don’t want.
More isolation.Less warmth.
Since I am slow to absorb the most basic changes in routine, I’ll need to marinate in this sea of change for a few hours before I can produce a worthwhile post on the terrible new development of vagrants shitting in my garage.
Seriously. It’s either a guy without access to indoor plumbing, an urban Yeti or a bear that’s escaped from the zoo.
