the frivolous chatter that is Looooofy

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

The 2nd Coming

Blogging to me, or so it has repeatedly presented itself to me, has always been a one night stand (not that I've ever had a one night stand so I'm merely emulating the morning after) - an extremely short affair. The kind of one night stands that you have after 6 years of sexual abstinence which would inevitably result in a one minute stand rather than a one night stand, unless of course you have been practicing tantric sex religiously during your sexual abstinence.

I come here, I create a blog spot, and I REALLY create a blog spot meaning I consider my nick and put effort in choosing the colours of my page and the what nots most over zealous virgin bloggers do when they create a new blog spot, and the blog would only be home to one miserable entry. Some might argue that it was merely half an entry, even.

But this time? No...This time it's different. I mean, I've always wanted a blog. No like how a kid always wanted a pet but more in the sense that, I've always considered this to be a productive way of putting forth certain sentiments. To express rather than to stifle. See but the thing always was my lack of time, not effort. So then I decide to go old school. The classic journal. Me bestest mate. But me and journals, sheesh!, that's another issue.

I love writing, I really do. I mean, I guess if I don't by now, I would have to come to love it because for those who don't already know, I intend to be a writer (of sorts). But the thing is with me and journals, why we never work out, is...

I hate my handwriting...

I despise it, I really do. It makes me feel like puking. It's grostesque, it's repulsive, it's simply disgusting. I leave myself in awe (like a depressive "oh, what the fuck?" kind of awe. Like if you were to walk in on your husband of 15 years going down on his gay lover, awe) when I TRY to read what I've just wrote. I would seriously give Robert Langdon a run for his money had I simply wrote "I killed the mother fucker! It was me! I'm as guilty as the fat guy who farted in the lift! It was ME! Looooofy!" on plain canvas.

It's bad, it really is...

My absolute loathe towards my handwriting has taught everything I wrote, and I mean everything, to have an adverse affect on me. Thank God (gods, diety, Oh Supreme One, Hugh Hefner) that poets didn't have handwriting as hideous as mine for the most beautiful of poems would fall obscure to the aesthetic eyes of appreciators. So I can't stand my journal. I hate it.

The writer who hates his own handwriting. That's fresh, innit? What's next? A cat that doesn't like the taste of it's own ass? What will the world come to?

So this time, I've pledged, to be different. To be vigorous and integrous to this blog.