Sometimes I don’t think I have the sharing instinct that other online journalers and bloggers have. I wonder if this is the problem. Yesterday I wanted to write an entry but I couldn’t get myself to sit down and write anything. I go through this a lot. My brain doesn’t suffer from writer’s block but instead a sort of stinginess; I hoard the thoughts and don�t want to spend them. Sometimes my mind is a stuck-up bitch with the good cookies, and she sits by herself at lunch.
Now this is not me; in real life I will make all kinds of jokes and do jigs and give grinning, jovial handjobs in order to get people to sit with me. But when I think about posting something, I’m frequently struck with a kind of shyness, a tricky shyness that’s really stubborn and judgmental at the core. I’ll decide, for instance, that I can’t be the funny gal everyone can relate to; I don’t want to be all HA HA, MY BOOBS! or otherwise go on and on about the lovably awkward hilarity of my girly parts. Or else I don’t want to tell you about the charming restaurant I went to; I don’t want treat you to a taste of my life here in the big city where it’s all so fabulous my life unfolds like a novel every day; I don’t want you to appreciate how petulantly sexy and/or adorable I am in all my photos, or at the very least the one where I’m looking off to the side and have my head tilted just so. (And memo to all you cybercuties out there: we know what you’re up to with cranking up the contrast. Everyone looks better when they look like a Nagel print, toots.)
