I spend way too much time blogging, seriously. Its become some sick twisted addiction.

On and off since I was 12, I have kept a journal. My first few journals I spent hours meticulously censoring anything I thought someone might read about me. I filled the rest of the NINE journals with gossip about my friends and their far more interesting lives.

As my paranoia receded over the years I bought a few larger red bound journals [yes, red is a colour of importance for me]. I used to spend hours filling it up with crap. The writing was all badly constructed, poorly spelled, full of typos and scribbles I can no longer decipher. But that being said it was far more personal and intimate, which begins to get lost the moment you start blogging.

What you gain instead is a lot more coherence and fewer mundane facts, like “Dear diary, spent 20 minutes in the loo today, making silly faces at myself in the mirror.”

I think the keeping of so many journals and blogs are all so that I can feel some sense of security that someday should I ever be found wandering with amnesia in the second class women’s compartment in the western local, at least a reasonably (in)accurate record of my life will be there for me as a back up brain of sorts.

I miss the red though. I miss the smell of the pages and the things I had collected that would fall out of them as they were turned. Dried & pressed flowers from a trip to Italy, the label of a great beer I drank outside with a friend or something I’d find that had been slipped in between a page ages ago that would turn up suddenly to amuse me. Sketches or little doodles I’d look back on and think “Wow what a great idea, I need to draw that!” or “Wow, what a rubbish idea, I can’t believe I actually wrote it down!”

Yes, I do miss the all the tactile qualities of a real journal.


7 thoughts on “Addiction

  1. I have the sort of ADD personality that makes it impossible for me to form habits. It’s a bitch when you have a lot of profound shit to say and it’s all in this silly handwriting that renders all the profundity utterly and completely fucking pointless. For some inexplicable reason, I’m reminded of this 12 year old genius I saw on tv, who when asked what would make him happy said, ‘ah, but how do you REALLY define happiness?’ I felt like punching him in his silly acne-ridden nose. If I ever read that kind of shit in my own journal, I’d have to punch myself in the nose too. Do you ever do that?

  2. my own journal never never never ever has any such philosophical assanine questions like that. and i would punch myself too.It goes more along the lines of “I eat chicken today..”exciting stuff.or doodles under title headings saying”GREAT IDEA! MUST DO!!” Followed by more exclamation marks.

  3. i had a diary too with a little padlock and asshole brother found a way to open it and i caught him reading it..i remembered thinking how nice it was that he was finally reading books…and then i realise what he was REALLY reading. so blog is for me. 30 years down the road i need to have some remembrance of those glorious days of youth..god i hope things get better.

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