Here there be monsters (socratic) wrote,
Here there be monsters

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Oh the weather outside is frightful

My long weekend of cold suffering and contemplation is coming to an end. I wish it wouldn't. It may sound terribly lazy but right now there's not much I want to do more than sit around in my underwear think and write. I feel like I need time alone in contemplation for the sake of my personal growth. I know, I know, if I had slightly smaller breasts and a greater affection for non-caffeinated herbal teas I'd be a New Age woman from 1997, but these things happen. One day you're a swaggering fellow, secure in your manhood, the next you're wondering where one buys a swishy earth-tone skirt that comes down past the ankles. Do you have to go to Seattle or can you mail order them?

Among the various things that I've thought during my downtime is that there are several areas of my life that need more written introspection. Some of you may, at this point, be saying "No, no, there's absolutely no facet that requires any more blathering. There needs to be a much lower ratio of miserable navel-gazing to corn poppy jokes in this journal." I understand that perspective, you insensitive pricks, but I think, right now, that brutally honest introspection will be a great aid to my writing later on. One of the things that stunts a lot of writers is fear of revealing parts of themselves that they're embarrassed about in their writing. Great writers' flaws are almost always well known, partially because they go into the texts and can be seen there. I think that writing about my own fears failings and fantasies in this journal will be an aid to me in the writing I really WANT to do, since I won't be so afraid of revealing myself. Someone once said that writing is like walking on to a stage naked with your back to the audience. On the plus side you don't get to see them laughing at you. On the minus chances are they're looking at a less than flattering side of you. That same person also said that citing another's work is kind of like wearing a towel in the aforementioned situation. It covers the most tender parts by assigning the ideas to another. You're left in the significantly less vulnerable position of endorser rather than author.

Anyway I need to feel free to write about what's going on inside my head without worrying about offending or boring other people. That's why I'm renting this web space. That's the point of having a journal. Writing extensively in a journal takes a lot of time and effort. It takes up creative thoughts and impulses that could be channeled elsewhere. That's acceptable if the process yields results. If it opens up portals to new aspects of self and unseals buried treasures. I'm hoping to do that.

Only it'll be boring for people who belong to the unfortunate caste I refer to as "other than me." I am acutely aware of being boring. It's a cardinal sin of writing. Writing something boring and leaving it exposed for public consumption is sort of like telling someone "Hold this for a second?" and then handing them a bag of dog feces. It's both rude and repulsive. I'm not going to filter, since it doesn't feel right to me and it always provokes outrage and sadness from fakingsincerity. Not that I don't enjoy antagonizing him, but his grandfather just died and his beloved Red Sox are about to blow the World Series, a little bit of sensitivity may be in order. So I'm stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. I don't want to filter and I don't want to bore those who came here seeking pithy amusements and/or informative discussions of various and sundry items including but not limited to updates on the seasons of the two New Jersey professional football teams (The Giants lost today and it's not looking great for the J E T S Jets Jets Jets.)

So I have a plan so cunning you could darn socks with it. The new user icon I'm implementing today is a lousy picture of me. I have received various requests for this over the years of journaling and I am tired of protecting you folks from my horrific visage. If any of you had been in Perseus' winged shoes you'd have BLOWN the assignment big time. You'd have been like "Medusa, let me get a look at you" and ended up just another piece in her statue gallery. I hope you're satisfied. I am putting it up for two primary reasons. For one I feel like if you're going to humiliate yourself in public you might as well go whole hog. There's no point in being pantsed if you're wearing boxer shorts. Make it tighty whities with a nice thick skidmark. Go about these things full-assed or don't go about them at all. I figure putting my face and my humiliation together is a pretty good idea. I figure this because I'm still a little sick and sleep deprived, but I figure it nonetheless. The other reason is to serve as a warning. If my mug is attached to a post that means it's all introspective and uninteresting/offensive. It means that I'm asking you to hold a bag of dog poop.

Bet you wish you'd read the last part first this time around.
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