Friday, while I was left alone at work for well over four hours with absolutely nothing to do, I became very well-acquainted with the computer screen here. And after blog-reading, and game-playing and music-searching and general pointless-internet-surfing became tiresome and coma-inducing, I took to reading my own blog. Yes, I was that desperate for something to do. (Don't let me fool you. I read my own shit all the time. It's just that it sounds almost understandable to spend an entire afternoon reading the entire contents of a blog about yourself when you have the excuse of "I'm new here and they haven't taught me anything beyond bill paying and there's no money in the account and no bills to pay right now, so I had no other option than to read about myself" to fall back on. If can't use that excuse, you seem hopelessly narcissistic and self-involved. Which, obviously, I am because, for fuck's sake, I have a blog about myself. But I digress....) So, anyway, I was reading all of my older, angst-ridden entries, ones about heartbreak and loneliness and self esteem (or lack thereof) and worry and doubt and exes and friends...And I realized: I was a much better writer when I was miserable. So if you're just joining me on this blog, please feel free to peruse the older entries, where I was sadder and grumpier...And, apparently, better. And if you're a long-time reader who's been disappointed lately with the quality of my writing, blame Billy. That man makes me so fucking happy that I just don't have it in me anymore to be even somewhat melancholy.
That being said, I think it's sad that the only entries Billy ever reads are the latest ones. Because I felt like I was really good at the art of writing before he came along, and I was hoping that he'd be a mite impressed with my talent when he read what I've published here. But, for reasons that I totally understand, he doesn't much care for reading the entries in which I whine about my ex, nor does he wish to read about my dating life that preceded him. So he generally sticks to the posts in which I sing his praises, which is nice for his ego, but does little to inflate his opinion of me as a writer. Which sucks for me because I think he is such a phenomenal artist (Yes, my amazing boyfriend is the artist behind the painting on the left there), and I'd like to show him that I'm at least a little creative, too.
On an only marginally related note (related only because I made this discovery on Friday's self-indulgent reading of my own blog), can we pretend that today is January 11, 2006? Because if we do, we can allow me to wish Divinities a happy first birthday. Otherwise, I'm just a horrible blogger, forgetting the anniversary of my own pride and joy.
So happy (belated) birthday, Divinities!