Intrigue

The words that I put up here are essentially just a monologue in my head right? Occasionally I pose a question to the shadows and I'm not really sure if answers matter all that much to me. What is it about this journal that attracts (or will attract) people to reading it? Do I write this for other people or do I write for myself. I think this thing is like a car wreck or something. I have plenty of good ideas for humorous little vignettes or weird concepts for fictional stories but I always end up writing here when I'm feeling introspective/idunno (I can't think of the word I want here).

Tangent: I think I have a slight stutter, is that possible? Isn't that genetic? I feel like when I'm speaking that I have to find the exact word in an exact order in most of my sentences. As I do this my brain is constantly tripping over itself attempting to scan it's limited resources. Anyway it's fine I just don't think I've ever really articulated this feeling.

Tangent#2: I have this expired trail mix from work with almonds cashews fruit and shit. I want to make a spaghetti sauce involving this for some reason. Probably because I've got this wild mushroom linguini my mom gave me for Christmas and I need to do it justice. I'm going to go search for complimentary flavors but if anyone has past experience with this I'd love to hear it. Let me add an addendum real quick, I'm not going to strain any tea anywhere near this shit.

The funny thing is I made fun of my brother for sitting there looking at a comment he was going to make on facebook, completely written out, deleting it and rewriting it like five times. I've been sitting here writing three almost completely unformatted paragraphs for forty minutes now? Not to be too bleak but these words have a maximum potential effect, these aren't going to change anyone's life, they are purely entertainment. Yet I still have to sit here and make sure that each word is perfectly placed in this box, even the ones that aren't recognized by Oxford just yet. The very gibe jokingly (lovingly) spat at Barry is what I like most about writing, what I can't do when I speak. Sitting here staring off into space while I find those words lurking somewhere in my subconscious. As much as I wish I could do that in polite conversation, I'm already at maximum awkwardness.

I'm pleased with how this has turned out. Thank you all for encouraging me to write when it sometimes feels like a chore that I'm unwilling to do. For the record, I often spend ten, fifteen minutes typing out a comment or status on facebook and delete it thinking, "what the fuck is the point of this? why should anyone care about this?" Sometimes you just have to scream out into that void, I know. I never feel like that with this, and that makes me happy. And yes I will probably sit here for another half hour before I hit publish.