One of the more obvious requirements for any person calling themselves a writer is also, at times, one of the most vexing. And, to be clear, blogging is writing. It just writing without any of those pesky assumptions of accuracy, or that annoying expectation of eloquence.
To be a writer, one must write.
Even if there seems to be nothing worth writing about, bloggers still have to come up with something, anything, on a fairly regular basis. Even if it's stupid.
Even if privacy concerns would demand complete silence, bloggers too often feel compelled to at least touch upon whatever, um, touchy subject is currently foremost in their head. So they'll often resort to crypticism and metaphors and little inside-jokes and innuendos. Or maybe they'll write about stupid and boring things and just pretend that the real topic doesn't even exist.
Such as I'm about to do right now.
See, there is something on my mind right now. A herd of related somethings, actually. And that herd has certainly beaten a path through my brain these past few days.
But, for now, I'm going to pretend that nothing unusual is happening. Maybe if I ignore it, it'll go away.
Anyway, I am incredibly, inexplicably, still hung-over from Sunday night.
It's not that I drank a lot of beer Sunday night. Certainly no more than what is normal for me on any decent weekend night. I may be wrong, but I'd even guess that I had quite a bit less than normal.
Usually this is about where I'd start to list the beers that I had, but right now it seems too daunting a task. To actually open my notebook and transcribe my beer reviews. Ugh, the sound of rustling paper just might kill me. And I might like it.
I'm pretty sure that what I'd find in my notebook would be that I didn't drink a lot of beer. Nope, what I did was drink a little bit of a lot of different beers.
And that, apparently, was bad.
I'm sure I'll get to the specifics in a later entry.
If I live through this hangover.