There are so many things I could try to use as an excuse. Post marathon depression. Holiday Hangover. February flops. Mental hay fever. The real reasons are so existential and wiggly that I can barely figure out how to describe them. I tried to explain the problem to an old friend today, and it sounded like I was quoting a Portlandia script, minus the quirky coolness.
I'm not sure people with my grab bag of neuroses are supposed to have blogs. Being torn between wanting attention and gold stars (comments! thumbs up! like me!), not wanting attention (don't ask me questions about myself!), and not understanding the point of anything makes for a difficult first draft. But why does everything need to be injected with meaning? Why can't something just be a collection of stories for the sake of storytelling? I spent over 30 minutes this evening scrolling through Humans of New York (non-Facebook version here), completely enthralled by the snippets included with each photo, and would have kept going if I hadn't promised myself I would write something tonight.
So I'm not breaking up with you internets. I'm merely trying to define our relationship and figure out how to make this space something I look forward to inhabiting instead of this thing that needs to be Great and Noticed.
