You know, when I started this thing I thought I'd post regularly at a regular interval, like every night at nine o'clock I'd sit down and write for an hour, pretend I was writing a letter to someone who was eager to hear from me, someone who could look past all the weird shit I say and find the deep, inner me inside.

So much for that.

It's okay, really. I don't mind. I just wish that the blank page and that blinking cursor wasn't to fucking daunting. I wish that it's magical properties did not always seem so frightening and that I could once again feel confident knowing that what I was about to do with that blinking cursor was something that could be considered amazing or at the very least interesting enough for someone else to be eager to read more.

So, that is/was my real, ultimate purpose to this blog--to write a small amount every day to remember how to make the words come, how to make my story keep going.

I have two stories I'm working on--Ha that's a lie. I have one story I constantly batter myself for not finishing yet, one that is constantly giving me some sort of emotional problem. I used to think maybe it was a book, it seems pretty long so far, but I don't know if I'm even capapble of finishing it, much less actually writing a fucking book like a real-life book. A novel. Something you might find on a bookshelf or a bargain rack. Fuck, anywhere. I want to see my name on a book somewhere. I mean, I'd like to see people reading it, I would allow an Oprah Book Club sticker (even though I think her club is fucking stupid, I mean, how does Oprah tag Middlesex as a great book and suddenly people think it's amazing, but when it won a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, nobody gave a shit? Good lord the nation is fucked up when Oprah means more than a Pulitzer).

However, the other story I'm working on is also good but dead for now. I know what I want to do with it but I don't know how. Or I know how but I fear fucking it up. Good Christ. I'm a mess. And somehow I seem to have lost the muse for the moment. Shit.

So now I've realized that this whole blog thing is totally overpopulated anyway and no one is going to care very much if I ever stop writing or reading or whatever. I'm not famouse or a star of the screen. I don't write novels and I don't pretend to have superpowers on a tv show. I've never been anywhere too intereseting and for all intents and puposes I'm just like any other sap that exists today. I've got nothing to bring to the table, nothing to show for my life so far and really nothing to hold on to other than my family and the few friends who can tolerate me for longer than three hours at a time.

Whew. That was a pity party and a half, wasn't it? Wah, oh woe is Wesker. Cry me a river. See this, this is the smallest violin in the world playing 'my heart pumps purple piss for you' over and over again until I stop complaining about my fully functioning body, my healthy family and my job and vehicle and intelligence.

So this blog just got so emo my heart stopped and I had to be revived.

Anyway, how all are well, whoever is reading this bugger, thank you, and those who think this is all I do, you're wrong, just give me a chance to prove it.

Whatever happened to Alanis Morrisette?

Now I know she's put out like seventeen albums or something since Jagged Little Pill but I think my question is what happened to her? I mean, I'm listening to All I Really Want, the first track off the first album and it's really good. Not the music so much as the content and just the emotions that lie behind the screen of lyrics. She's angry. She's not taking shit from you, whoever you are. I like that.

You Oughta Know is even more pissed. In You Oughta Know she sounds like she's about five seconds from cutting off your dick with a rusted safty razor. And it just reeks of that feminimity that daunts all men: there is a moment of calm right in the middle, just like every argument you've ever had with a woman where suddenly she stops talking and just glares and then you realize that you're really in trouble.

The anger and bitterness in this album is a milemarker in time for me, even though I have a penis. I don't know why, but there are still songs on this album that make me think of myself when I was younger and could identify with the pain and meanness and anger that fills the words (if not the music, which is kind of weak at best).

So what happened? The last time I saw her in any type of music scene was her naked (unflatteringly so) in a dirty laundromat. I think. That might have been a MadTV sketch making fun of her. All I know is that something happened that destroyed that anger and heartfelt hurt and the rage that boiled under the surface. My guess is she fell in love, had a kid, and decided that it was her responsibility to save the world, just like every other over-blown solo artist.

Does this happen to every solo artist? It happened to Madonna, who is now just a joke, especially after Guy Ritchie started making good movies after they divorced (personally I lost my taste for Madonna when I saw the beginning of Resevior Dogs). It certainly happened to Elvis Costello ("Whatever happened to Peace, Love and Understanding?" Well, Elvis, you made it vapid and washed out and a battle cry for burnt-out hippies and trendwhores) and even made a Beatle lose his integrity (I'm pointing at you, Sir Paul, although Ringo also went in the same direction, he was never really popular except when he was a drummer in the 60s).

See, there are exceptions to the rules though. Bruce Springsteen, as generic as he is, he somehow stays popular. But I can explain this simply because of Chuck Klosterman. In Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs he say's Bruce was cool "because he was trying to save us." [mine or his emphasis, I'm not positive] My contention is that Bruce was trying to save us the entire time. Elvis and Alanis (and to a lesser extent, Madonna) started off hating the world and most of it's occupants, at least for three minutes at a time. But then, after they blew their anger-load they decided that they were wrong before and know we were all worth the effort to try to save us.

To be honest, they should have stayed wanting us to burn. When you're angry you're the most honest, so when Alanis is asking us if our new girlfriend will go down on us in a theatre, she's really telling us that the world isn't fair and life sucks and that the world isn't squeaky clean. Her mission isn't to save us, it's to destroy us, but instead she saved us. By trying to save us, she destroyed what we thought of her.

Fuck. Does that make any sense?

It's 12:35 am and I'm searching for something to say.

Maybe this wasn't the greatest time to decide that I wanted to share myself with the world, maybe I should just quit this and retire to the bathroom and have myself a good shit. That sounds good.

Maybe I should write my goal here, like 'why did I decide to start a blog when I already have done the blog thing and it never works out?'

Well, mainly because I need to start writing again, and practice makes more better good.

I know most people here consider themselves writers (although I'm sure there are people on here who believe themselves to be writers and are anything but, and I could be one of these, since you don't even know me yet), but I like to think I'm okay at it. But since I haven't written anything (on a regular interval) in a long while I'm going to have to just start writing in here every day. Why not? It's not like there's anything else going on that's any more satisfying than watching my own words pop up on the screen one letter at a time like penguins marching towards the sea.