"I Want to Go Home, Mom." But We Just Got Here, Honey.

Not surprisingly, I am already sort-of "over" having a blog. I mean, I'm not over reading Bree's posts. I could do that all day. I'm just over writing my own posts.

As I mused earlier, in a demonstration of both wicked foreshadowing and remarkable self-awareness, I am pretty capricious. I think I also said that I was "whimsical" but of course that's euphemistic. Truth is I'm just fickle, and I get bored really easily, and really quickly. Actually, that's not true either. Basically, I get really into something -- such as this blog, or a song, or a boy, or an idea, or [insert pretty much anything here, frankly], and I immerse myself in it totally. After total immersion, however, comes oversaturation, and then ennui, and then, eventually, complete indifference. It's kind of where I'm at with John Krasinski right now (sorry, Bree).

Sometimes, however, I make it to the completion of the cycle, that rare post-indifference stage: pure rapture. It's how I feel about champagne (see earlier posts), and Bree and Kristi and Eleanor and Kenyon and Dana and Lindsay, and the song "Romeo and Juliet" (and also, "Trying to Throw Your Arms Around the World"), and a really good steak (and bacon, but not together, God forbid), and the book "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter," and my family (usually), and running on the beach, and David Foster Wallace, and pretty much anything to do with words in general. These are things (and people) of which I will never tire. So there's hope for you yet, oh blog of mine (and I guess you too, John Krasinski).

And speaking of David Foster Wallace, this post was actually intended to be a rumination on the meta-post, wherein I wrote about this unbelievably hilarious Go Fug Yourself post on Kelly Clarkson (solely for this line: "Today, I'm going to put leftover lasagna on a baguette and call it the Carb Lovers Sandwich.").

http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/go_fug_yourself/2007/05/fugaway.html

Buuuut...I'm over it already.