I'm sitting here at my computer, waiting for the dryer to dewrinkle my shirt so I can go over to the tournament, and I really want to write something.
I'm not sure exactly what I want to write. I just know that I want it to be good. I've had too many bland entries lately and those entries reflect the blandness of my life. If, I theorize, I can think of something interesting and exciting to write about, then maybe I won't be such a loser.
Wait, that's not right. I'm not a loser.
You have to play to lose.
I am a bench-warmer in the game of life.
So I've met several people (at the tournament) these past few days that only know me from my 'blog. People from the local area, from Russia, a group of Canadians. I even signed my name on one guy's poster. These are people, pool players, that went to this site for the pool movies and articles and then strayed over to this 'blog. Now they keep coming back, and they think that they know me from what they've read. They come up to me and ask me how I'm doing, if I'm really over her leaving, if the flu has made a reappearence. Hell, one girl asked me how much weight I'd lost. She could tell from my videos that I used to be heavier than I am now.
Of course I know that people read this thing. And I know that they're not all relatives and friends. The majority of the readers here are complete strangers to me. Even though I know this it's still pretty surreal to actually meet these people in person. I mean, I don't even know their names and they know all this shit about me.
I find it kind of odd that I don't really care how my 'blog reads to my friends, or to my relatives, but I find myself caring deeply how these strangers are perceiving me. These are people that read this thing because they want to read it, not because they know me and feel an obligation to read, and not simply because they want to know what's going on with my hair, my love life, my liver, etc. They're reading because they're getting to know me and want to know more. Weird, huh?
This 'blog is all that these strangers know of me, and I feel that I owe it to my readers (and to myself) to, at least every now and then, post something brilliant, or insightful, or scandalous.
I want to keep paying this tab, this debt I owe my readers. I want to be funny and compassionate and thoughtful, and I want to be perceived as all of those things.
I want people to like me I suppose. That's pretty normal, right?
Calm and relaxing. Nice and pleasant. These are the words that describe me and my life now. Excited and apprehensive were replaced with tortured and grieving, and they in turn were replaced with mundane and boring.
Well, the dryer just beeped at me, signalling the time to head back to the hotel.
This isn't the entry I wanted to write, that entry is still inside me. I can feel it in my head, rattling around, trying to work its way out.
Not just yet.