books, turn up for the
So, I just got round to watching the Terry Pratchett programme, Living with Alzheimer's that's been saved on Sky Plus for a few weeks. Other than crying, a lot, I also found the time to panic about losing and forgetting things. Recurring nightmare No. 347 - this blog suddenly, mysteriously gets deleted from the mighty interweb and I lose my only copy of about 4 years of writing.
I'm sure there's a better way of backing up your blog, but I don't know it, so I've spent the last hour going into the posts from every single month and copying the whole text into a Word document. Are you curious?
303 pages; 150,131 words. My God. That's long, that's book-long. That's a crying shame.
Since my angst-spectacular resignation from the blogging world, I've only really come back for the occasional rant/hangover story/misery-fest. It seems like I only actually want to do this when I'm feeling something bad so - just to reassure you - I'm fine.
Really, absolutely. Amazing, hey? In case you're wondering I wouldn't ever trade. I miss being a creative person (I don't think I quite deserve the label anymore), miss feeling like a writer. But being happy and comparatively well-adjusted is far better than I ever could imagine it was. It's so alien in fact that sometimes I get paranoid, start looking for problems because I really can't believe that days and weeks can go by where I'm just ok. Just, fine.
Anyway, I think I'm on here because I feel like I have something to say again. No idea what, as yet, but I seem to be spending a lot of time on the net at the moment, on message and debate boards/whatnot. It seems strange to be spewing all this opinion out anonymously while this blog - which I am so proud of, so attached to - just moulders away. Not literally, y'understand, that would be impossible. But metaphysically, yes, it is covered in mould. *chases mice out of long-abandoned photo section*
Theoretically, I could do this again. It's not like I'm incapable of writing now, in fact I'm enjoying studying so much at the moment that most days on the train home I'm frantically scribbling down my two-cents about pretty much everything. What's stopping me is that I am so not the same person that started this blog, or even the same person that was writing it until maybe 2 years ago. I'm not that borderline-bipolar, born-again Christian, hyperactive drama student, head up my own ass, pious little motherfucker. And that's not a bad thing. I never really loved that girl, she was pleasant enough to be around but pretty shit to be. So as far as I'm concerned, I've lucked out.
Now? Ha. Relatively sane, heavy-drinking, chain-smoking, cheerful, atheist humanities student? Slightly heavier? Better dressed? In the same, constant, dire need of a haircut and a good bath? Hm. I guess I've spent the last couple of years learning to just get shit done. I pulled my head out of my ass long enough to sort my life out, then messed it up again, and now - balance! Fun! Domesticity! Cynicism!
I could write a whole blog about the cynicism alone. Maybe that's where I start.
(Tenner says I never post again.)