So, what’s it all about?
This blog is only a week old and i’m still struggling on how to properly utilize it. Is it simply going to be another writing exercise to spark my other projects? Is it going to be like a diary, full of “Dear Blog” entries where I complain that Ethan was mean to me at school and that I don’t care what anyone thinks, Phil Collins is sorta awesome? Maybe it can be what I secretly hoped but am sorta embarrassed about*–a place where I can discover great truths; about myself and the world and existence and how I think about all of them.
So what’s the point?
That’s the money question about life and about Elevators Go Up.* There’s no better purpose for a blog than for existential pondering, right? The two are made for each other. This space is a willing, unjudging and, most importantly, glued-to-its-seat forum for whatever fears, gripes, wonderments and idiotic thoughts that wander through my brain. I can brood or contemplate or daydream my face off. Whatever mood strikes me, whatever thought consumes me, whatever feeling permeates me–i will now always have a place to confront, dissect and interpret it all.
Yet so far, all i want to do is bitch.
So what’s the point?
I want to bitch about how people at work don’t respect me enough. I want to bitch about how my dad is a moron, and about how the rest of my family judges me too harshly.* I want to bitch that if i’m old enough for my hairline to recede than i should be too old to get a pimple. I want to bitch that people place too much value on money, and then I want to bitch about not having any money. I want to bitch that treadmill etiquette should be like urinal etiquette; there’s no frickin’ reason to use the one right next to me if there’s perfectly usable one down the row. I want to bitch about how life’s not fair, about how good doesn’t always beat bad, about how people are selfish. I want to bitch about how nobody gives the Detroit Pistons enough credit for beating the Lakers in 2004.* I want to bitch about girls and dating and about how married/engaged girls should wear wedding helmets or something, anything more noticeable than a ring because by the time your eyes work down to her finger to discover that ring, you’ve invested enough emotionally to be fairly upset by that aforementioned discovery. I also want to bitch about the fact that i just wrote a rather long list about things i want to bitch about, but i really don’t think that i’ve scratched the surfaced, and that i think that qualifies me as whiny.
I think i bitch too much and it’s time for a change.
And maybe that’s the point.
Hey. My first truth.
*like the Phil Collins thing
*probably in that order
*Dear Blog, my grandma was mean to me today
*coincidently, Karl Malone is a giant bitch.