Bad blogging

For some reason, I'm having a hard time getting into this whole blogging thing. It's not that I don't like to write, and it's not that I don't have my own opinions on stuff, it's just...hard to do.

I've never been one to keep journals, either (remember diaries? with the little lock and key that gave the illusion of privacy? made out of paper? like books? remember books? oh, nevermind...)

Anyway, there have been many times in my life when I could have kept a pretty pathetic journal, but I--thankfully--restrained myself. It would have been page after page of "Oh, I'm soooo looooonely!" or "Oh, I wish he liked me!" or "Oh, I hate college/work/life-in-general!" You know...the usual angsty crap.

Actually, I've found aborted journals that I tried to keep during a few periods of my life and reading them was a surreal experience--especially when I'd talk directly to "Future Becky," which never friggin' fails to freak me right the hell out for some goofy reason. I found one that I kept when I was in college, and all I can say is that I'm glad I wasn't aware that I was so miserable back then. Jeez...one page actually had tear-stained ink. I cringe to think of myself at that time.

The best thing about this whole deal is that I have the feeling that no one is actually reading it, so in a way, it's just as good as the old-fashioned lock-and-key diary. About as secure too, I guess. There's a certain freedom here to write whatever the hell I want, without worrying about how I come across, and that's fairly cool, I suppose.

Still...I'm a terrible blogger.