I used to write every day. I wrote diaries, poems (awful serious ones and slightly less awful funny ones), stories (porn), and obsessive analytical essays about television shows and lesbian subtext.
And I used to draw everyday. I drew cartoons, trees, naked people, movie stars, cats (lots and lots of cats).
Then I got into a rut and there was beer and the gym and my relationship. And then I wrote for a living and started to hate it because it was work. And then my relationship ended and there was roller derby and parties and freaking Facebook.
There have always been lots of excuses.
Now I’m almost 30, totally directionless after a wreck of a year, and wondering what I’m going to do next and how to keep focused on the things that make me happy instead of just watching TV and eating peanuts.
I think there’s supposed to be a theme or a reason to write these things. I don’t know if reading my pal’s Blog and thinking it seemed like a good idea counts, but I think making myself write can only be a good thing. And I’ll try to put some art stuff in here too.
This blog will of course solve all my problems and through it I will discover how to make my life better.
