I've been having trouble knowing what to write. This stems from way back when GmailThis! got this blog some popularity. Admittedly, 99.9% of people only went to that post's page and not the front page, but there's something about getting several thousands of hits in a short amount of time that can be a little off-putting.
The biggest problem is that it caused me to reconsider my "audience." Up until then I wrote pretty well satisfied knowing that the people who read this thing were either immediate friends or the occasional wanderer. All of a sudden I felt caught in the spotlight; I didn't want to continue writing things in the same personal bent, both because they're, well, personal, and because I didn't think it was "worthy" or something.
I've looked at things and decided what to do. It's something that I should have been doing all along, and I think my better posts are the ones where I followed the guideline of just writing to and for myself. Once I started worrying about outside influences is when I grew uncomfortable with posting. With any luck this should make for more frequent posts. They're probably going to be more introspective and maybe that'll be more or interesting and maybe it won't be.
I guess I'll try to start things off now.
Three weeks and a bit ago I went to a birthday party. I was invited by a girl who I've managed to remain infatuated with for nearly three years now. I didn't know the girl whose birthday it was and I didn't know anybody else who was attending. I also hadn't seen the girl who invited me for six months, when we sorta broke up. I say sorta because we were only sorta going out.
The first hour or so was awkward. I'm a wallflower. Good god, I ended up playing a few hands of solitaire with someone's deck of cards. That's not just sad for me, I could tell it made some of the other people a little uncomfortable. They were sociable people, really pretty nice, and I'm not really good at parties.
After that I allowed myself to have a good time. The awkwardness was reduced to that which originates from my near-constant self-doubt. One kid, a really nice guy, had brought an acoustic guitar and he, his girlfriend, my friend, and I ended up sitting outside on the porch. The temperature was hovering around freezing and I was in my usual dress of t-shirt and lightweight hoodie. Despite the cold, it was a nice moment. The guy and I talked music briefly; he said that he pictured me playing the violin, I replied that I played the bass guitar. There are some uncomplimentary ways that the suggestion that I play the violin could be taken, but I can't really argue. I'm sure I was giving that sort of impression.
After a while it got to be too cold and we went back inside. Cake was served, time was spent on the couch with several other people and an at times confusing tangle of limbs--nothing overtly sexual, let me clarify. It was an interesting environment. I don't think I've ever been around people who are comfortable enough with themselves that it carries over even to strangers.
There was a sort of collision of worlds involved for me. The people and atmosphere there were pretty alien to me. The people there were not people who I've really hung around with or really had much chance to, and the atmosphere of openness was one I've never really experienced, just given the circumstances of my life and my personality.
It was also hard for me. While I love to see my friend, both from an aesthetic point of view and because I enjoy her company, it always stirs me up. Even if things are going well, the knowledge that this brief intersection of our lives will end and not happen again until perhaps another six months hangs over me. In the end I am glad I went.
Writing like this terrifies me. This type of monologue is always written and rewritten in my mind and I can't think of any occasion where I've bothered taking down the words in an honest and unabbreviated way. Sharing it in a public medium is unimaginable. I don't know if every time I think about having done it I'll be filled with an amount of self-loathing and tinges of humiliation or a measure of pride that I actually opened up. There are certain things I've still kept in because I consider them either irrelevant or inappropriate.
I find myself unable to proofread this for anything more than blatant misspellings, so please excuse any grammatical errors you find.
