stay with me.
nothing in particular.
no, this isn't poetry.
yes, this is me playing a word association with myself.
i'm entering barcodes of books about north carolina, north carolina laws.
i wasted fifteen and a half years of my life in that state.
the question of where i'm from is confusing.
it's usually not worth asking, since it takes a very long answer to get deep enough into the topic so that the answer will allow someone to get to know me any better.
but, i'm an open book.
i'd probably tell you.
odds are, you wouldn't want to hear it.
odds are, if you've been reading this long enough, you probably know it already.
better i provide mental images of tornadoes and anguish than of nudity, right?
it's less concrete that way.
although, depending on the circumstances, it's hard to tell what reveals more of me.
i've concluded that it's too specific to matter in any general sense.
it depends on the person.
it depends on the time.
it depends on my frame of mind.
it depends on your frame of mind.
this is a fruitless exercise.
most of blogging is, really.
it's things that often don't mean a thing to anyone but me.
usually, if they mean something to other people but me, it comes out in conversation with them anyway.
but, it's comforting.
if i can't talk then, i can type here.
it's nice to be able to read back.
it's nice to be able to write random things down on the spur of the moment.
i can save my thoughts for later.
and, if an entry is particularly dumb, i can look back and laugh.
that, or cry.