Proverbs 23, Verse 9
"Don't waste your breath on a rebel.
He will despise the wisest advice."
---
CHIPPED WISDOM:
I try.
Oh, how I try to be good. A good boy. I try, you know-- I really do.
Sometimes, though, I just can't help it. Most good boys can't, you know.
I try very hard to go about my life and do what I do and be who I am without much thought to the opinions and thoughts of others. But sometimes, just sometimes, every now and then-- I fall short. I catch myself wondering what the mirror thinks as it looks back at me in the morning. I try to dissect the silent judging glances, stares, eyebrows and lip creases of those seated across the room from me-- those who look, and those who don't.
Why don't they look? What am I-- llama vom?
No. Llama vom would at least be interesting enough to look at. At least, I'd look at it.
Since leaving Facebook, oh, not even two weeks ago, I've become, oh, a little self-conscious about who's reading this blog now that I don't have a forum of 438 "Friends" to blogvertise to. I tried joining a 30something blogging network, but I might as well have joined a leper colony for all the positive P.R. it's gotten me.
Earlier in the week, I penned what I thought was a really strong entry-- a very funny post about some foibled, fabled days of my childhood-- getting punished-- or, not, really-- at the hands of my parents. According to my Blogger.com stats, it was read by two people. One of them was my wife, and the other was my best friend. Now, an audience of two isn't as shameful as it sounds, because I'm awfully fond of those two people, but let's just say that I was hoping for a bit of a wider circulation.
Of course, something to remember and not take especially lightly is the fact that I was, quite literally, convulsing with laughter while writing that entry at the memories it sparked in me-- long forgotten and packed away somewhere in the recesses of my brain-- bringing them forth again brought forth a real joy. Sure, a sick joy, but a joy nonetheless. And my wife reminded me on the couch later that night that there is no crime in writing for oneself. "And you sure did that tonight," she remarked with a smile.
And maybe that's going to have to be good enough, because maybe there really is nobody really out there anymore. Maybe at 102 posts, this particular thing has run its course without a platform upon which to sustain it. Or maybe it's just going to continue to be what it was, or be what it is, and do what it does-- and I suppose whether it's to you or to me doesn't really make much of a difference anyway. Because I need a belly laugh every now and then too, and if I have to get it from myself, well, there are worse things in life. I'm being tested now: I am coming face-to-face with the truth about why I write. Is it to send something out there into the ether to be read and appreciated by someone else, or is it some internal struggle I'm working out and you're kind of an afterthought?
I don't know. That said, though, I've got to say-- you're one hell of an afterthought.
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