I don’t actually.
Started a few posts, but since I don’t have any actual problems, according to the rest of the world, I canned them.
I don’t need soft words to soothe my soul, since I’m quite capable of doing that myself. Or to use music to do it.
I don’t need to be reassured of my worth, because I don’t look the sort. I swagger around as if the world is at my feet, and I don’t give or take any quarter.
I don’t have to be traipsed around as if on eggshells, since I look and sound to be such a capable woman! I am outspoken, and vocal in my dismissal of frivolous things.
I just write, since, should I not, I would probably explode.
Certainly not because I get any kind of positive avowal that it’s even worth the bandwidth it took to get it out there!
Makes me wonder.
Why do I even bother blogging? Why do I lie awake at night, planning my next piece of wisdom?
All I have is just myself. My own words. And they’re not half as good as some of what I’m reading.
I don’t have major emotional shit happening in my life, mostly because I just don’t allow it.
I don’t have the gift of actual poetry, or any particular skill in artistry, be it with words or with pencil.
I don’t have millions of experiences of far off places with wonderful, magical photo’s to add to anybody’s store of good things to see.
I have absolutely no interest in any kind of politics, not of my own country, and certainly not of other countries.
I have nothing to add to anything anybody ever says, since I’m bound to offend and send affrontery into the ehter.
It would seem I’m kind of boring actually.
Might be a good thing to not send my boringness into the world anymore than I already have.
And on that note, a joke.
Fare thee well, until we meet again…