Maybe it's because I'm an author, but I feel that my own life is not worth writing about - it's just me, and it feels, I don't know, almost egotistical to make entire posts consisting of what I did today.
Now, this doesn't mean that I don't think anyone should blog about their lives. I'm fine with- in fact, I love reading other peoples' stories on their blogs; it's interesting and compelling, snapshots of the intricacies of life somewhere else. The trouble is me-and writing about myself. Others can get over that, and, in fact, that's great for them, because they can have these blogs and can have people that enjoy reading them. I'm sure there are people who are interested in the life I'm living (Actually, I've been told as much) but, y'know, I just can't do it. Can't write about myself. That's the issue. I'll see what I can do.
In the meantime, here's another new blurb from Untitled:
“So then, when we all got off the
shuttle, there were hundreds of us there, and we were all sort of just standing
there, lost. War’s over, folks, time to go home, everyone was so excited. But
now we’re home, and it’s like, now what? Where do we go from here? I lost two
years of my life to this, others lost more. It’s not fair, you know? But that’s
the Confederacy for you. They pet you with one hand and slap you with the
other. I guess it’s supposed to toughen you up.
It was me, her, and the other guy,
the one from physics. It was us three, we were nineteen years old, and we had
nowhere to go.”
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