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the skunks of los feliz
I just realized last night that I am not what you might call a faithful blogger. Some people blog every damn thing that happens to them. Not me. What's my malfunction? To begin with, I've always been a horrible journal keeper. I remember being assigned to keep a journal back in middle school for some kind of english class. I stuck with it for something like two days, then let it drift until just before the project was due, at which time I stayed up half the night making up the boring details of my life over the past few weeks. Like Rose Mary Woods, I omitted the entertainingly banal events (my Mom finding the Playboy hidden in my closet), and replaced them with such moments of brilliant introspection as "My bus smells funny".
I think I've just never found my own life interesting enough to muster the energy to record it. Others may find my life a spectacularly entertaining train wreck, but I just like to keep on moving. I just like the ephemeral nature of existence and memory. The past is malleable, unless you've recorded it (again, see Nixon). I prefer to remember it as well, or as poorly, as my recall permits. Of course, this could just be a half-assed attempt at self-justifying my failure to post on a regular basis. Alas, we'll never know. I have no recollection of my motive.


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