Sometimes when writing, I wish that I had something to complain about. More than that, something that would make me bitter, so I could be hunched over my desk, miserly, hating the world, all too cinematic Ebenezer Scrooge, my dip pen scribbling off furious diatribes against the things in humanity that piss me off.

But really, I don't have such motivation. What do I have to complain about? I have a great relationship with a great woman whom I love; I work a job I enjoy that pays well; I have no moral qualms with my own being; I volunteer; I have the free time to do things I enjoy, such as writing and this web site; I am accompanied by a great group of friends; nothing out of the ordinary ever really effects my life negatively. In fact, I belong in a matinee musical starring Gene Kelly more than I do in a J.D. Salinger story.

So what does this leave me with? My grandmother says I'm lucky, my parents say I'm blessed, and I say I'm boring. It really isn't all that interesting to give a laundry list of what is happening in my life. Doing so puts me to sleep and I'm the one writing, so it would just kind of end the whole diary/journal thing. I'm not what one would call a "social rebel". In fact, the only thing I do against the establishment is ignoring most of the rules of grammar in these journal entries. This isn't done on purpose, though. I'm just lazy.

It isn't like I am going to make all of my proper nouns lower-case to make a point or write without punctuation to greater reflect how I think. Actually, I think most of all of that is mainly bullshit by people trying to be artistic -- you know, like art majors who are supposed to do a portrait so they paint a black square, the talent isn't there so they make up for it with un-artistic crap that someone will justify as "personal flare for the dramatic" or "a pure and purposeful rebellion against society".

[Note, if the artist themselves are the ones justifying with such statements, then run for the hills and start collecting Popsicle stick art, you'll be better off].

Back to the point (see two paragraphs ago)... I guess what I am left with are my thoughts and some memories and the occasional "guess what interesting thing just happened to me". And hopefully I'm left with some readers who think and have memories and the occasional "guess what interesting thing just happened to me". Because that's really what this whole thing is all about now, isn't it?