Is there ever a point when you look back at your writing and think, wow! I hate my writing? That’s where I’m at right now. I look at old drafts and hidden posts. It’s all just… cringe. And yet here I am, still typing away.
My private diary entries, on the other hand, are rambling, short, profane. Laced with profanities. One curse word after another. That’s how you know it’s straight from the stream. It’s a sailor’s potty.
Still debating, after five years of this blog’s existence, what to do with this blog. Who are you? What are you here for? Are you a diary? Journal? Or are you tidy and clean, artificially bright? Scheduled out posts that are prim and proper, brief and dapper? I do clean things up after a certain period of time. And it’s become a conglomeration of all three aforementioned categories in the past half-decade. I think this may be my longest and most consistent blog yet. I wonder if the semi anonymity and community have played a part.
I finished Pachinko and Boston Girl. The former was good. The latter was not. I have also been drawing a lot on my procreate app and watching Netflix on my iPad. I’m typing my iPad as we speak. It’s grown on me, I will admit.
Maybe I will structure my diary entries like I’m writing to an old friend. But that would be facetious, even though I don’t think I used the word properly. It would be facetious because I have failed to keep up with most, if not all, of my old friends. They have had to reach out, and even when they have, I have refused facetimes and left our conversations over brief texts.
I am perpetually between “I should talk to people and value connection” and “all I want is just to be left alone.” I’m very much like a cat in that respect. I do appreciate affection, but I also hate people. Still. I have my favorite people, even if I am roundabout about it. I also like to hide, wander and lounge. We were at a house showing when I slunk off, tired of listening, and they asked, where is she? And I was slinking through the alleyway as they looked up.
Maybe I will write to my future self. Something like that. I don’t know. I think that sounds silly. And I’ll be biased towards wondering what the future is like. Maybe I will write to an imaginary cat named Pillosky. Or maybe I will just stick to dear diary. Any opinions?