Friday, October 15, 2010

I hate titling blogs.

The thing that's perplexing about blogs is that anyone would ever care about the internal thoughts of others. I'm sure at first it seemed kind of novel. Ooh, I'm reading someone's diary. How naughty! But now, anyone can set up a blog in four seconds and post pictures of their kids and complain about their boyfriends and there it is. Mundane thoughts for all to share! And that any of us are deluded enough to think someone reads them is another matter entirely. We all write because we secretly want someone to be hanging on to our every word. But who ever really is that interested in someone else's blog? We read the blogs of those really close to us, perhaps if they have pictures. We read the blogs of those we have crushes on, perhaps? But other than that, really who cares? Ok, there are those few people that write really really eloquently and have this snarky self-awareness and by some crazy fluke of nature throngs of people read their daily blogs, but what percentage of the population is that? .001? And yet we are all painfully aware of each and every individual we know that might read our words and we write them accordingly. It's crippling. This is the blog that I have that EVERYONE knows about and I've written in it maybe five times this year, because I want everything I write on this blog to be p.c. and witty and interesting and bla bla bla which is lame because I know only like mayyyybe 4 people will read it and probably three of those people will skim and the other one is my husband and he'll read the whole thing because he's really awesome like that...

Anyway, I have this other blog that no one knows about and I still write seldom in that blog but I write a lot more interesting personal stuff there because I have no censorship. I admire those that can write everything without limits. I've gotten in so much trouble for things I write in blogs over the years that I am now obsessively low-key....which means I never write because that's not how I write. Anyone that has read one of my zines knows this is not how I write. I write balls-to-the-wall, no holds barred, insert other cliche here. I like to think of myself as subversive, and I am, for my small town. I would never want to move to a really hip place because then I would be compared to other quirky weirdos like me and then I'd just be normal and how fun would that NOT be? At all.

Generally, people around here complain about the Bible Belt and dream of escaping the Midwest, but I'd just be so boring in a town where I didn't stand out. I think I'd lose my identity if I couldn't tell where I began in a sea of weirdos. In high school I got called a freak. Now people call me a hippy. Interesting transition. I still don't feel like a hippy. Is hippy just the nicer way adults call you a freak? Oh my God, I think that's exactly it! Now I get it.

There's that epiphany moment. That's why I write.

I was thinking earlier today about careers. When I'm just being myself, doing what I want, I'm writing. It's all freestyle and I don't write prose-y or poetic or have a huge vocabulary and really I just write about myself. I freestyle about my own psychology or the psychology of others...I read, and I make mixes. And I take care of my animals and hang out with my husband. I'm really a very boring person. I try to be healthy and I'm trying to teach myself to cook and I'm graduating in May and I'm halfheartedly thinking I should start studying for the GRE so I can be in grad school by next fall, but then what? Ok, so I had it pretty planned out (Master's, LPC, Couples and Family Counselor) but that all seems so grown up. Am I ever really going to be a career girl? Is that me? I can actually see myself achieving these things and it feels kind of like a letdown. I see myself being really nervous about being a counselor and then getting used to it and being really bored. If I work in a small practice, I could potentially only see a handful of people every day: my patients and the few people I work with. And then I'd go home and see my animals and Michael. I'd be even less social than I am now! But really, I don't think I much care what my job is. I have never really been a girl of ambition. I mean I know I don't want it to pay any less than my current job...but I do want to feel like I'm cutting my own path...but I also tend to get depressed when I'm left to my own devices.

Oh, yes, I'm such a complicated woman.

Neon Angel.

I don't think I can read it anymore, much as I wanted to live vicariously through a David-Bowie loving chick in a rock band in the '70s. Knowing how fallible memory is, there's NO WAY Cherie Currie remembers her life in the vivid detail of her autobiography. Even though the writing is compelling and descriptive, I am constantly thinking, "It so did not happen like this." I know it didn't. She writes as if her life is a movie. As if everything happened with the wind blowing in her hair. It paints a picture. It sells books. It's fun to read, but it's not nonfiction. It's loosely based on reality, which would be fine if I could just accept that, but I can't. If I could just say to myself, "This book is a loose representation of reality. These are exaggerated details of a girl's life." then I could just shut up and enjoy it but because she's willing to lie about the details as if she remembers them as well as playing back a VHS of her life, I have to question everything. If only there was a disclaimer at the beginning from the author stating that this is an account of inserted memories. Even with just THAT I could shut up and enjoy it, but alas, I cannot and this will make the fourth book in a row I have stopped reading before finishing.

Why is nothing satisfying me lately, literature-wise?

Help a book-deprived girl with suggestions. I want to read about music! I want Rob Sheffield types!