Oh boy this is gonna be deep. Not really. It's just that this blog of mine has taken on a level of lameness that makes me ask, "Who is going to be interested in reading this?" "Would I even want to read about someone who thinks he or she is all novel in their carthartic 'figuring-my-life-out verbiage? garbage?" I don't know. I was walking yesterday in the hot Fresno sun and contemplated to no end whether I should just erase it all and start over. Then no one would have to know how uncommitted I am to the initial 90-day challenge I set out for myself.
The other day, my best friend forever began quoting me passages from this God-forsaken blog and I all of a sudden felt very exposed, like she was reading out of one of my teenage locked diaries (the only two of which I had that I had to break into myself because I lost the keys...sigh.) I mean, of course I knew that this is published to the internet and anyone can read it, but because I never had a particular audience in mind, really didn't think what could happen if someone did.
So next question, What picture of myself am I creating by post these rantings? Writing has a way of revealing that speech does not. When we let printed words have their say, they speak the truth loudly and vividly until they become a story...so I suppose, lameness and all, a story is what I'll be...
Question of the day: What story would your words tell if they were written?
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