Blogs are nothing short of self-indulgent.
To think that someone is interested in reading what “I” have to say about anything “I” feel like commenting on.
I have a livejournal account which I used to write about my life, but that I now use to procrastinate. It seems the only reason left to write in it is to document some memory that I insufficiently logged in my hippocampus.
type slowly functions as a virtual file that is less likely than my Lady MacBethBook Pro to “out damn spot” my physical files — allowing me to access my fleeting thoughts a little easier.
And the self-indulgence lies in every moment I wonder if someone else reads this with greater intention than the curiosity spurred by a link I placed on my facebook page.
