I often wonder what people are looking for when they read what I've written.
Sometimes it's because I genuinely care about my readers, and want to make them happy, but usually it's just basic curiosity that I feel.
I seriously doubt that people come here because they want to know what beer I just drank, or what I watched on TV, or how hot that one chick at Cumberland was a couple of weekends ago.
The only things that I've ever written that were worth the electricity used to bang them out have been those entries about you know who and the surrounding drama.
Maybe that's what people are looking for. Tales of loss and longing and lust and love and liability, as those bottles still stored inside me are labeled.
Maybe that's why people are leaving. Because those bottles, no matter how tightly sealed, those bottles still allowed pressure to escape.
And now there's no pressure left to write anything at all.
So I write crap like this entry right here, just to pass the time while I wait to see if anything interesting is ever going to happen again..
I was thinking the other day. I was thinking that it would be funny if I never wrote another word about her or the turmoil that I've gone through. What would make it extra-funny would be if I saw her, or heard from her, or whatever, and still I never mentioned it here at all.
Well, it would be funny to me, and at the rate I'm going I'll be the only one reading this crap before too long anyway.
I wanted this pain to end. I keep telling myself that.
Is losing readers worth the knowledge that I probably won't die the next time I see her face? That I can close my eyes and picture another woman in those fantasy places where for so long only she appeared? That I can have hope, not for her and me, but simply hope for me?
You bet your ass it's worth it.