What gets stuck in your head

I finally made the switch to the new blogger. I didn't want to, at all, because who cares? But every time I'd go to post, blogger would get on my case about it. "New Blogger! Switch to New Blogger! Last Chance!" So now I've switched, and it's exactly the same. Except that I can add "labels" now. Like for example, this post will be labeled "insular dwarfism". Because I feel like it.

What's the deal with it being so hard to write? I'm not talking about writing in blog-form, although that's hard too. I'm talking about school.

(To make a fluid transition into the next paragraph, I'll now connect school with relationships. Perhaps there should be a relationship school? Oh dear, no, that would be LIFE. Ha ha ha. Pwnd. Um. Relationships.)

Why do relationships fuck you (me) up? It's a good thing I don't get into them more often. Because as well advertised as all that stuff may be in the talkies, the aftermath tends to make me sad. Inconsistently enough, but nonetheless. Sad in the long term.

Last night I took my dog for a walk. It was raining and pitch black, and when I went to pick her poo up off the boulevard, one of the turds moved like a snake and vanished into the ground. Then another one did the exact same thing, curling and whipping into the earth. For a few seconds after that I just crouched with the bag on my hand, staring hard at the grass, waiting to understand what the hell I was looking at. Then I realized it was worms. Night crawlers, I guess. Massive shit-sized worms that only come out after it rains, in the pitch black. And once I knew to look for them, they were everywhere. I know worms are invaluable for the earth and plants, etc, and I like worms generally. I'll pick them off the wet sidewalk with my fingers if they're stuck, but I don't know. I think if if I ever knew the number and the sheer size of worms moving around underneath me, all the time, I might have to throw up a little bit.

This is a weird segue, but I'll remind myself now that it's okay to be self-absorbed here. It's a blog. It can't be anything other than self-absorbed, right? Unless I only post about American politics or cats who look like Stalin. Which I'm not really qualified to do.

It's insane, but I've been going through a period of not liking myself very much for being the kind of person who blogs. Even though practically all the people I love/enjoy are people who put stuff out there, about themselves, on the internet. Livejournals and blogs and art sites and flickr and even myspace, which is 89% pointless and superficial as hell. I mean, when it comes to other people doing it, I tend to think it's entertaining and brave and weirdly, routinely fascinating, but I've been working on a wicked double standard where when I do it? It's bullshit.

Wacky right? Totally wacky. But it really stops me from posting, a lot. I keep telling myself that I don't have anything to say. Which is a cop-out. Even if my day-to-day life isn't filled with startling anecdotes to dazzle and amaze, I can always post about seeing some freakish worms, or driving around at night.

Marian and I went out last night to look for pie. We actually do that. But it was around 2 a.m. so instead we drove through Richmond to get doughnuts. I can't actually stomach doughnuts since the apple fritter incident, but the Tim Horton's out there is a good place to drive to if you're a restless creep who doesn't care about the environment, and if you need to talk to your best pal about relationships, and how they sometimes fuck you up. So I took the more scenic route that winds up along the dyke and past some farms and fields. There are some disturbing new houses along that road. They look like they've been built from kits by meticulous dollhouse fanciers. But I mean, if you actually took a dollhouse and Honey I Blew It Up, it still wouldn't look like a real house that people could live in, right? It would look like one of those new houses on the dyke road. Is what I mean.

Anyway, we were listening to some old music that I'd dug out of my closet for the occasion, because when it comes time to revel in angst, I find, it's best to do it with lame (or not) music from the time period your angst can be traced back to. Did that make any sense? It's getting late. I'm getting late. I mean tired.

So the music was playing as we passed the kit houses along the dyke road, and for a second it felt the same as it did a few years ago. Because those houses arrived back then, out of nowhere, in the middle of nowhere, and impressed upon us their utter weirdness at the time. But last night the instant of deja vu passed when we saw behind those houses, in the gaps between them, to more new houses, and more behind those. And simultaneously, (as it happens), Marian and I shared a peculiar sensation of backward time travel. Not as if we were going back in time, not anymore, but like we were back in time already and going forward, seeing between the houses to the houses that would be there after/now, when we were twenty-four and I thought I was sad about relationships.

Then we tried to explain the feeling to each other at exactly the same time, and it was adorable.

No segue whatsoever, but self-censorship is the theme of March. Even still, despite all my carefully placed hints of mournful self-reflection and nuances of... stuff about me, I'm still fighting the urge to, you know, delete this bitch.

Instead, though, I won't. I'll let you see what I like to call... "my process". The process of my thinking words and typing them. Bald and vulnerable as a newborn eggplant.

I'm going to hate myself for all of the above, tomorrow.