Death of a Post

Listen, the last thing I need is to start worrying about my audience. But, inevitabley (it seems), once I discovered I had and audience I started worrying about them.

Now I can't even post without thinking about what they'll think.

note to self: STOP WRITING FOR YOUR READERS

Readers, I blame you. If you weren't there, I wouldn't be writing for you. (On the other hand, if you weren't there I wouldn't be writing at all, since, as I may have mentioned before, all I've ever wanted was an audience).

We are at a classic impasse. You could stop reading, thus depriving me of the audience, thus encouraging a return to my base literary style; I could ignore you, but really I can't because that hasn't been working; or I could just continue to post crappy little diatribes about crap I don't even care about, which wouldn't be funny, and probably wouldn't be anything but boring. I doubt' they'd even be long and boring, I'd be so apathetic they'd probably be short and boring.

Ok, ok, I'm sorry. I don't really blame you readers. It's not your fault you stumbled across this web log in the first place. It's not like I'm out there on the street corner with a giant placard ringing a bell and shouting "http://a20261.blogspot.com" And of course it isn't the nature of the posts that keep you reading, it's the nature of your jobs (boring, difficult, monotonous) and your need for distraction (big, bigger, biggest). Can I blame you for that? No, of course not. It was my job being so boring that got this whole journal thing started in the first place.

It's me, really. I've just hit a rut, a creative quagmire. I wrote some posts, then put up some links, then a photo or two (btw, my haircut still looks gorgeous), and then BAM. Nothing. I started a downward slide toward mediocrity.

So, really, this is an apology. I'm sorry readers, faithful audience, friends, romans, countrymen. I'm sorry parents, teachers, managers, coworkers, members of the custodial staff; acquaintences, comrades, compadres; I'm sorry to you lovers, fighters, allies, enemies; to you democrats and republicans. I apologize to you new englanders, philadelphians, texans (even those who aren't originally from texas), globetrotters, stay-at-homers, and mr. moms. I'm sorry, entire population of the Indian subcontinent. I'm sorry, Portugal. I'm sorry France -- No. No, I'm not sorry France. France, you can shove it. Go ahead and whine. "Boohoo, Lance has six Tour de France victories, boohoo, he must be on steroids." Yeah. Keep trying to prove it. Can't do it, can you? No. Because he's clean, he's not on drugs, he just happens to be the greatest thing on two wheels the world has ever seen. (Except for that one time, on the highway, when I tried passing a guy in the breakdown lane but there was a broken down car there (go figure) and had to swerve back into the right lane but took the turn too fast and ended up on only two wheels doing about 65 mph. That was pretty awesome). Oh, and you know what? Portugal can suck it too. I rescind my apology.

Blame it on the all-star break and Johnny Damon talking ALL THE DAMN TIME. We need to start playing some more baseball. (oh, and speaking of the all-star break, every active player in our wiffleball league was elected to our wiffleball all-star game. (so really it was like any other game of wiffleball we play, we just called it the all-star game. and also we made a rule that you had to dive to catch every ball hit near you the whole time, even if it was unnecessary.))

Ramblingly,
-Tom

recommended downloads:
Cake, Sheep Go To Heaven
Everclear, Like A California King
Citizen Cope & Santana, Son's Gonna Rise