No longer a Deerling, my Darling

I spend most of the day figuring out how to look busy, or how to look like I am doing something other than what I am really doing. What am I really doing? Visiting websites habitually, xing out, tabbing in, repeat. Sometimes I read the news, and if I do, I always read the comment section that follows. Sometimes I have my 2 cents, but I rarely, if ever, join in on the conversation. This is becoming a new (negative?) trend that spans across far more than just my online reading habits. I am infinitely interested, but not sure about interesting.

Yesterday, in my internet travels I re-read a journal of a strangers (livejournal.com/users/deerling). This is difficult to explain. How I used to check every day, often more than once. Did she write? Was she eloquent? Is she sad? Now I realize that I should have spent my time writing, rather than waiting, on baited breath for the twisted words of yet another young woman in the throws of love. Now, upon my revisit of her private life I can remember more about what was happening to her then, than to me. I did however leave a comment on her latest (last?) post and found a journal of mine. So I WAS writing! It is difficult to read the precisely poised words I managed to compose. WHO was I writing it for? Each word seems wrapped up tight and garnished with a bow. A pretty contrived present to someone, but who, I have no idea.

This time it's about me, me, me.