jot it down...

I have a nice stack of crisp journals with beautiful leather covers and fine paper inside. I never write in any of them. They are all gifts. The only notebooks I buy are little Moleskin's. I'm not sure why everyone gives me these journals as gifts. I imagine they must think I have something to say. Something that perhaps I'm not willing to share with them. Hmmm... Yep.

Moving on.

On another note, one reader of this blog is astonished how I can share so many intimate details of my life. I contemplate that thought and wonder what they are talking about. The reality is, for all the 'data' being shared here, there is another 100 GB sitting in my brian pan dying to get out. I simply cannot type that fast. I've tried. At one point, I was up to about 100 words per minute. Seriously, THAT is crazy. It's not worth it people. Glad you came to visit, but the idea that you are all caught up in the dripping from my mental crockpot blows my mind. (Of course, I'm not talking to YOU. You are just here to see the daily drivel (If I've posted that is.))

Perhaps I should pick out one of the sacred journal books from the stack and go forth and conquer my mind with it. I could write about how stoned I'm not and other various things wrong with my psyche. I could even tell some of the truth. Inquiring minds want to know.