It’s one of those wonderful Logan days when the rain drizzles for hours, and then leaves the air feeling so clean and cool that I wish I was running for miles and miles, rather than being perched in front of my laptop screen for hours reading an e-textbook. Boo technology.
There’s just something about rain that clears my soul a little. Earlier today, I wrote the following in my journal (Yes, my non-public, all-to-myself-except for-at-this-moment journal) : “I feel like a thousand elephants have had a fun little stampede on my body. My eyes itch, my head hurts, and my mouth feels like the Sahara desert.”
I’ve had a general air of nastiness about me today, but sitting on my bed with the window open watching the setting sun play against the dingy white walls of my room makes everything…better. I’m a writer without words.
I’m a blog stalker. I can count on one hand the number of people who read this blog. I’ve found three or four really incredible blogs this week and without exception, every one of them has written something to the effect of what I said above.
“Nobody really reads this”
“I only write this for my family”
“I’m sure no more than ten people have read this”
It’s eye opening. Such good writing should be showed to the world. Or maybe not. For now, I’ll just be the creep who randomly knows 1001 random facts about your life. It’s like Facebook, but better because good blogging requires talent.
Facebook, not so much. It’s a funny thing. I had Facebook before almost anybody else, but I deactivated it a year and a half ago, right as it was catching on. Except for that first week of withdrawals (If you’ve done it you know what I mean) I’ve never been tempted it get it back.
I much prefer poking people in real life than on the internet.