i'm sure that sometimes my blogs seem silly, self-indulgent... sometimes i find it hard to write them because the very fact of sitting down to take the time to complain about some trivial, white, privledged, middle-class problem occasionally makes me ashamed of myself.
sometimes i'm bored of being myself. sometimes i wish i could be doing something that might actually help someone.
but then there are other times when i just feel like i have things to say. lately i've been saying more but less, because i started thinking about who might be reading my blog. i don't fool myself, i know mostly that hardly anyone does, but somehow it made me start curbing the things i was saying. i wouldn't call myself an artist, i wouldn't even call myself a writer yet, but i can call myself a blogger.
i'm lonely in my head, and a little bored. i think it's coz i'm bummed out about hurting myself this week, wondering why i'm here when if i were anywhere else in the world i might meet someone who i could really like instead of a drunk boy on a dancefloor, which leads me me wonder why i even feel like i need someone else in my life, when i already have so many wonderful friends who bring me chocchip pancakes when i feel sad ;)
i don't even really like people that much.
and i have to confess, dear blog, that i keep a diary too, to tell all the real secrets and truths, to name the names, and that is something no-one gets to read!!