I often find myself labouring under the misapprehension that people deeply care about what I have to say. It’s why my Facebook wall is open. This could be a logical explanation for something as self indulgent as a blog detailing the excruciating minutiae of an arguably ordinary existence.
The truth is a bit more shocking. Unlike every other blogger who is out there, I am actually a wannabe writer. Imagine that. There’s something that will separate these random musings from the quadrillions of other uneducated, opinionated idiots that live on the Internet.
In any event, the idea to start a blog appeared at the bottom of a pint glass last night. Not literally. You idiot.
I start this blog simply because I want to write more. Recently my writing has solely encompassed fluffy “Dear Diary” journals that marked my divorce like buoys bobbing in a dreary and black ocean (I know, dreadful, my similes need a bit of work, but I digress). My journals are, unfortunately, absolutely awful to read back. I try for self deprecating but usually wind up coming off as a giddy thirteen year old. These journals were no longer satiating the need to write, the craving that burns through me on a daily basis.
When I speak, I trip over my words and my foot lives in my mouth. I am the queen of the awkward silence. I frequently can’t think of anything to say, or I have just said something vaguely inappropriate that leaves the people I’m with uneasily pondering my mental state. When I write I’m like a verbose swan, gracefully flitting from idea to idea. The reality is that what I write probably reads more like a gawky pelican. But this blog is nothing if not a platform for improvement.
Also, I live in my own head a little bit too much. Hopefully this blog will get me out of it. Before I fall like Alice into the abyss.
However, there is also the possibility that this blog will be remarkably short lived. (I reference the Fat-Chick-Fitness-Challenge, my previous blog that I can almost guarantee you have never, ever heard of. It was as short lived as my desire to run around the streets of Marayong on a cold winter’s morning).
So, dear reader who doesn’t yet, and may never, exist. I do hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. The end.
C. Cat, Esq.