Back in my days of Live Journal living, I had half a dozen side journals I played around with. (Give or take. I can’t remember without looking it up and I’m lazy.) On one of them I posted random pictures and my weekly last.fm stats. I tried to recreate that with a subdomain here a few years ago, but it sputtered out pretty fast because I kept forgetting about it. (See also: Lazy) So far all of my subdomain pipe dreams have sputtered out because I just don’t have the mental fortitude to keep them up. I like to compartmentalize things into their own space, but my brain is an episode of hoarders and I can’t make sense of any of it ever.
I don’t use this domain nearly enough to justify the amount of money I spend on hosting a year. (And right now things are borked because of the new SSL certificate, blah, blah, your site is insecure YES I KNOW.) I want to write here more. I miss it. But I find myself staring at blank drafts and a blinking cursor, and after so long of not typing anything, I just close the tab and move back to staring at the blinking cursor in a Word document. There’s nothing to say I can’t go back to the random pictures and last.fm stats. The pictures would be fine. The obsessive music habits would be more work because I would feel compelled to pile in a bunch of back-dated posts from the beginning of the year, because how could I just start on a random date? Since last.fm has my entire history since I started using the service, I could go back and create lists for every week since 2006. That would be stupid and insane, but the option is there.
I think about the days when I wrote practically every day (back on ye olde LJ) and I try to remember what exactly I wrote about. It was mostly bitching about suffering my days at the Toxic Shit Hole (TM). I wrote about TV shows I was watching. I wrote about current events. I don’t have a job to bitch about these days. (And I’m actually grateful for that.) I don’t really watch any TV shows right now, unless you count Critical Role. And I just can’t bring myself to write about current events anymore. It only serves to make me feel shittier about the shitty state of the world.
So much I wrote about in those days served as my therapy. It was cathartic to just dump out everything in my brain onto the page and leave it, for better or worse—and there were more people reading what I wrote then. Since I’ve been with Bob, I don’t have that desperate need to purge my every thought onto the page just to survive on a daily basis. Having a companion to talk to has flipped my entire existence. Sometimes venting on the page does feel better, but most of the time now it doesn’t. (And most of that happens on Twitter anymore anyway.)
So what does that leave me with to write about?
Anxiety?
Writing?
Musician crushes?
The latest developments in the stuffed animal horde?
… I could write about anxiety until I filled up the total storage capacity of the internet. But there is only so many ways I can really say I AM FEELING REALLY ANXIOUS AND I DON’T KNOW THE EXACT CAUSE before I just start banging my head against the wall to distract myself from myself.
… I have plenty to say about writing, but it’s nothing cohesive and what I do write about it is so damn cryptic and nonsensical, when I come back to it later, I have no idea what the hell I was even talking about. If I didn’t tag my entries with specific story tags I would NEVER remember which one I was talking about on a given post.
… Musician crushes are fun and all, but there’s very little I can really say before it just gets weird and kinda creepy. (Hasn’t stopped me in the past, but…) I suppose in the same vein as random pictures and last.fm stats, I could just start posting youtube links of the stuff I’m listening to on repeat. I could actually start using something like Spotify and start curating playlists of all my obsessive tendencies. But I don’t use any streaming music services because I am old and still committed to BUYING the music I listen to.
… I could write daily on the latest developments with the stuffed animal population around here. But the ridiculousness that happens in this house with synthetic critters doesn’t generally translate well to the page so the endless amusement would be lost in the process. In some ways it’s disappointing, because I think we (and by WE, I mean BOB) are fucking hilarious and it would be great to share it. In some ways I’m glad, because it’s something that’s just US and I like that we have more inside jokes than any two people probably should.
So where does that leave me? Writing several hundred words about having nothing to write about, apparently. There seems to be a pattern here.
Here’s a sunset from a while back. We haven’t had a good sunset around here in a long time.
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Too Fucked Up to Call 2AM Club |