paint every insignificance a sign

Why the hell do people blog anyway? It's 2:13 in the morning and I feel compelled to write, but...why the hell write something publicly visible? What motivates bloggers? Is there an exigence, and, if so, what is it? My best guess is that there is some widely shared need for personal validation. Or maybe my life needs a timeline. If you've been paying attention, you know that's a bad idea. Lame. OK, so I suppose I owe you something profound (you = all seven of you). No, I don't. I don't owe anyone anything. And yet I write. Ironically, I don't think I can verbalize anything - at least not eloquently - that's in my head. I suppose this blog is a failed attempt at doing so. I wanted to use it for my rants about - well, everything - but somehow these things always turn into glorified self-important diaries, predicated on the ludicrous notion that someone OTHER than you is actually interested your inane thoughts. This is all random. And pointless. That's my excuse for everything. I preface whatever I say with a simple "now this doesn't matter AT ALL, but...". It's an age old tactic, preemptively shooting holes in your own argument before you make it. Words on paper. Or a screen, I guess. WTF? God, I loathe internet shorthand. What the fuck is WTF? Hmm...Ok, a point...my blogs used to have a point. Ya know, there seems to be a dearth of points and an awful lot of dull edges in my brain tonight. One good thing: this is painfully high school, but...when you like someone, it's so exciting to see signs that they might like you back. An "accidental" brush of the leg, a glance that lingers too long...I notice this shit. Chuck Klosterman would blame this on my self-obsessed generation, always looking for fake love, but these signs are more real than the pathetic relationships most people fall into. I love these things. I love them more than love itself. Or maybe, in my warped brain, they comprise what love actually is. Lou Gramm wanted to show us "what love is", but honestly...who listened to him? I refer back to childhood idealism more than any sane adult ought to. OK, so, as I'm writing this, Staylefish is playing unplugged reggae on my porch. Where was I? Right, so...signs...the flicker of a remote possibility of mutual feelings may be the best feeling on earth. Because what people THINK they want - love, whatever - is actually just a fundamental human need to be understood. For a millisecond in your life, perhaps someone ELSE actually gets it. Probably not, but well...it's sort of a beautiful thought. It's in their eyes...for a split second, they almost say, "I agree, I am thinking what you are". That's better than the best orgasm I've ever had, probably because it's much easier to get laid than to be understood. Now...the problem with all this is that I risk playing the "no one understands me; it sucks to be a tortured artist" card. And it most certainly doesn't suck to be me. Not lately, anyway. But I do have this incessant need to figure out damn near everything. I know I can't, but I stay up trying anyway. As I stated before going off on all this...none of it really matters. Right? Is that a rhetorical question? Who am I talking to? Pfft...blogosphere. I'll blogosphere you. You're a blogosphere. Who the hell is playing slide guitar out there? I suppose it's cathartic while it lasts. What's important? What matters? What SHOULD be in my head right now? Windy as hell tonight. I hate asthma. I really can sing when I can breathe. Also...oh jesus...now they're playing George Michael. I like Faith (shhh...don't tell). Wow...that is some serious drunken, off-key caterwauling going on out there. Sacrilege. I've got nothing else. Where did all these words come from? Still a few more hours to figure that out. Daylight bad.

This post will self-destruct tomorrow.