My eyes hurt. I think I must have slept with them open last night. Creepy, huh? I was in my mid-20s before I found out that I do this. I went on vacation with a friend of mine. She and I shared a room, and she got up before I did. She was sitting at the hotel table tying her shoes and talking to me, assuming I was listening because my eyes were half-open. When I didn’t respond and she finally noticed that I hadn’t moved, she thought I was dead. I woke up to her poking me with her finger. She looked horrified. My mood can swing from one end of the spectrum to another when awoken (waked?) from a deep sleep, so I responded with “what the fuck is wrong with you” or something equally poetic. Anyway, my eyes hurt.
In the midst of online Christmas shopping last night, I read a friend’s blog. Considering I’m such a fan of the blog as a writing and communication tool, I really don’t read that many. Mostly because so many blogs are just regurgitations of daily events with no observations about those events, no humor or pathos (or both, which is best), no contextualization. Boring. So I was reading a friend’s blog and noticed a link he has to his friends’ blogs. I read a couple. One was this incredibly obnoxious chick who writes a lot of stuff that sounds like she’s bitching about work but she’s really just giving herself compliments. I don’t want to quote her here in case there’s some crossover in blog readers, but I’ll give you an example using myself. (See? Now I can say something positive about myself without owning that I’m doing it. Genius.) Here goes.
I am sooooo bummed – I went shopping at Victoria’s Secret after work last night and they only had TWO bras in my cup size. Evidently that store is mostly patronized by the itty bitty titty committee because I couldn’t find ANYTHING.
See how it seems like I’m bitching about my bad shopping experience? But what I’m really doing is telling you I have a big rack? See? That’s ALL this chick writes. I realize the concept of keeping a blog in the first place is mired in self-centeredness. Just creating one assumes that someone else is going to find you, your life, your stories interesting. I get that. To compensate, I try to entertain you. Not talk about my tits. And if I did talk about my tits, I would be compelled to talk about my big ass (or fat ass, to quote the bike-riding crack head), just to keep it balanced.