Clearing the pipes

I don't write enough. There I said it. I don't write enough.

I am not only talking about this blog. There are vast swaths of my existence that are unexplored, unrecorded, lost to the ages. And some (few) of them just might be interesting. But do I write them down? Do I share my knowledge/experience/views? No.

All my life, I have imagined myself to be a writer. My therapist once told me that the greatest hope of my recovery/destiny/calling would have something to do with my writing, and I do not write.

I compose an intentionally low-threshold theme for a blog--Random Ignorant Musings and What Had At Lunch--with the explicit goal of simply getting myself to write--and I don't write. People who love me ask me to write, and I do not write.

Meanwhile people all over Facebook and the Blogopia are all writing 25 random things about themselves willy-nilly. A friend, just for the heck of it, writes 50 random things. And they were interesting. I was glad to read them.

And this introverted intimacy-phobe who doesn't let anyone get to know him except strangers craves an even more anonymous form of writing. But then, I never write in my blank bound journal either.

I come up with themes, I write a few hundred words, and I throw them away because my expectations are too high.

Well, that is enough. I am self-indulgent. I am writing something. I don't care.

Okay, I do care. And I already feel guilty for writing this whiny screed, but I am not letting the voices in my head win.

Onward and upward!

Lunch today was Visiting Parents Sandwiches: we never eat plain lunchmeat sandwiches unless my parents are visiting, because we are much more self-indulgent than that with our food choices. But my parents help us to live simply: bread from the corner convenience store, two extra wide slices of turkey, one extra-wide slice of ham, processed cheese, butter, and mustard. Generic Lays-equivalent chips. Diet Coke. And a snickerdoodle, home-baked from a refrigerator pull-apart package, so that the cinnamon makes this square on top of the round cookie. Oh, and my sandwich got the guilty lettuce--no one else would take the last slice that Mom had brought all the way from home. It sat in the cooler in her trunk for days, but it was quite well refrigerated by all the miserable weather.