Meta-Blogging and Other Things

So it seems that blogging is not quite as much fun if you don't receive any comments. It's probably why I can never consistently keep a diary or a journal for more than a week. I suppose if I am uninterested in my real life peeps making their way here then I will have to comment on other people's blogs in the hopes that they find me even the slightest bit interesting and maybe sneak a peek over here and then don't think I am totally and incredibly boring.

I've never really fancied myself a writer. I know I'm not a bad writer by any means, but I'm pretty sure I'm not in really very spectacular, either. It's more stream of consciousness, and I think I write exactly the way I talk. I've been told once or twice that I talk the way I write, but I'm pretty sure it's the other way around. Either that or I end up sounding like a stodgy British professor man. But that's mostly when I'm writing a paper or something. Gosh, it's been a long time since I've had to do that. Thank Jesus. And by Jesus I mean that I'm pretty sure that he had all of nothing to do with it, or really anything that ever happens in my life, but his name is a convenient place holder when I don't believe in any sort of deity. I guess I could say "thank nature" or something, but that just seems wrong to me. Yeah, so for future notice, invisible blog readers, any invocation of God or other such theological character is purely a literary device.

See? Stream of consciousness. Actually, that is probably why I like blogging, rather than paper-writing, or like, trying to write a short story or a book or really anything with a plot.

Speaking of, recently sister and I were going through cabinets in our parents house and discovered a pile of "books" that we had created via school projects. Most of hers were hilarious kindergarten through second grade masterpieces, which are funny and embarrassing of course, but in the way that you can completely disregard because you were six years old when you wrote them and no one should be judged by what they wrote at age six.

My book, however, was a collection of works that I created in the first weeks of my sophomore year of high school. While that was approximately nine year ago (holy cow!), it is still recent enough, and fifteen is still close enough to adult, that the secrets contained within said book are truly terrifying to me. I am really bad at judging my writing. Either I think it's totally and completely the best thing ever written or I think I might be struck with lightning to dare write such horrible crap. Either way I'm about 95% sure I am wrong, but you know. Or maybe you don't.

But anyhow, dear anonymous internets, something I wrote in high school:

Aurora

When I awoke it was dark in my room. The hall light was not on like usual, and I could barely tell where my room ended and the next one began. My bed was hot and my face was sweaty. I rolled over onto my side and tried to fall asleep again, but my eyes would not stay shut.

 Slowly I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretched my arms. Out my window I could see the lights from the buildings downtown. Their reflection on the thick mass of clouds blanketing the city turned the sky an eerie orange color, one that shouldn't be seen in the middle of the night.

 I had to check my clock to make sure that it was not morning and that the orange color was not just the beginning trace of the sunrise. The numbers glowed red in the darkness of my room, cutting through the dense black atmosphere. 1:59 the read. It was much too early for a sunrise.

 Although I understood the phenomenon causing that orange hue to illuminate the sky I couldn't help but feel that something terrible was about to happen.

Wow, so it is really hard to resist the urge to edit the shit out of that. But still, I think it is pretty awesome. It's probably not, but whatever. And let's please ignore that it was written in silver gel pen on black paper. I was creative, okay?