Okay, seriously? I'm pretty bad at blogging. It's a combination of the inability to hold down a thought for long enough to write a comprehensive post on anything (usually my posts die because I start reading something else), or it's that I can't bring myself to come over here and blog.
To top that off now is the fact that I do believe I'm going to start writing on something. Maybe. I don't know. I say that a lot. But I have a set of autobiographical stories in mind because, despite how boring I am personally, I've had some bizarre, interesting shit go down in my life. I can't give a comprehensive story of my life for a lot of reasons, but I can give a series of short stories. The idea came when I was sitting last year in a hotel room on New Year's Day en route to visit family in Georgia, and they were playing "Clocks" over some sports montage that my gentleman caller was watching, and talking about how it was a Decade! Over!
And I thought, you know, as decades go, mine has been pretty fucking insane. Maybe I should write about it. "Ten Years In The Life: A Checklist Of Shit Not To Do With Your Life." Except, of course, the later parts that got me here, that required the earlier parts, but whatever. Everyone takes their own path, and mine is usually exceptionally crooked. I was one of those kids who probably burned their hands to a crisp repeatedly on the stove. Make of that what you will.
Anyway, exacerbating that was the death of someone to whom I was not close as an adult, but who was important to me through the worst of my teen years, when I was being abused and was so depressed that it's a miracle that I didn't try to hurt myself again in greater earnest. I was very sorry to hear about her death because she was truly one of those people who knew what people needed and when and, the day after the worst of the problems happened, when I sat in band class and quietly had a complete meltdown in my chair, she pulled me out and asked me what was wrong.
She was the only adult in the entirety of my time in high school to ask me what was wrong. It doesn't matter that I didn't have the words to tell her and wouldn't have if I did. It just mattered that she asked. That was the kind of person she was. Mind you, I'm not blaming my parents for this, because neither of them was particularly happy at the time and I was giving them absolute hell as payback for the shit that I was going through. But, still, she was the only one to ask.
And, in a couple of days, I'm going to a memorial service for her, because it's that important to me. However, at this memorial service I will probably be seeing a lot of people I went to high school with.
Have I mentioned that I broke and ran from here as fast as I could upon graduation for a reason? I wanted away. I did not want to see people from high school anymore. I wanted to forget about it.
I realize now that that isn't possible or productive, and I'm not running from my past. It's just, I don't want to see people from it. One of my greatest fears upon moving back home, and one of the biggest reasons I didn't want to, was the fear of encountering people I knew. I don't know what to say or to do. And I'm about to go be around a bunch of them probably, at a service to honor someone who helped make those awful years tolerable. I'm not looking forward to that part.
So, long story short, this makes me want to write.
Yeah, this isn't about politics. I won't be able to write about politics for a while without the post containing largely the word "fuck" and the occasional sputtering noise. I am done with this bullshit. It's not apathy. It's the opposite.
So, yeah. I'm going to continue right on being boring now.