Everything Old is New Again

One thing that I've been doing a lot of since moving into the new apartment, now that I'm in a place that's all my own and not a sublet in which I'm crowded by someone else's crap, is sitting at my desk and writing in my paper journal. I haven't done that for quite a while, and I'm finding that I enjoy it as much as always.

It doesn't hurt that I finally finished one journal and have started on the rather cool new one Fozzie bought me. The man has good taste. And there's something about a blank book... it's like starting over, somehow. A clean slate. Fresh start.

I've also taken to sitting at the bar at the Font of Dionysus and scribbling away. Which, frankly, can lead to some less-than-sensible rants. Still, I'm having a good time.

There's an inherent requirement, when writing for a blog, of being, I dunno, entertaining? Knowing that people are going to be reading what you write sort of adds a requirement that you be, at least, interesting. In the paper journal, though, there are no such restrictions. It's freeing to be allowed to be boring.

When he gave me the journal, Fozzie asked me if he would ever be allowed to read what I was writing, and I told him -- faster than I would tell a chick she didn't look fat in a pair of jeans -- "No. Never." It has a lot less to do with my worrying he might find the contents offensive than revealing the true uses of the hand-written journal.

I have a bit of a reputation for being quiet; even-keeled. I don't make a public display of anger or frustration or fear or high dudgeon. I feel them, though, a lot. The outlet for those feelings is my handwritten journal. And I can tell you ('cuz I occasionally go back and read these things) that it doesn't make for riveting reading. There's a lot of whining going on between those lovely leather-bound covers. But I get it out in a healthy way without keeping it all bottled up inside.

Aren't you glad I don't do that here?

Or, at least, that I moderate the whining a little?