Welcome to a blog

I get Facebook, in a way it makes sense, of course we need to keep up with our friends, indulge in the minutiae of their lives and trust that our forms of existence are superior to theirs. However, Twitter (although I use it far too frequently) and blogs just seem hugely egotistical. I have found lately that a small part of me wants to be a blogger, but why? No-one really cares about what I think as much as I don’t really care what others might be doing/thinking, especially not when they blog in an emo mood- there’s nothing worse than reading self-pitying tosh. But here I am. At almost 1am, writing about myself. Worse than that, I can’t justify it. I can’t psychoanalyse why I need to be doing this. Nothing is wrong in my life, I’m in a super mood most days and really am not emo at all... Just perhaps this blog will act as a sort-of-less-intimate style diary. We’ll see anyway. And any of my friends who think I’m narcissistic in ‘doing a blog’, you’re right, but everyone else seems to be harping on about themselves so why can’t I?

To be entirely honest, of late (and it pains me to say so) I’ve been leading a really quite boring life. Days come and go like passing clouds, but the worst thing is, and it’s a symptom of this crazy world we’ve been thrown in to; I can’t think of anything interesting to say on Twitter. I keep seeing very mildly amusing adverts and thinking... can I make that into a joke? Or... shall I just sit here and watch my life dribble away until I, myself, am dribbling away in an old folks’ home? I think that’s it, I’ve found my answer, I’m writing this because, although I have very little to add to conversations these days ‘Oh gosh did you see that episode of Dinner Date where a guy was trying to meet another guy and the innuendos were just slightly homophobic?... No? You didn’t see it?... Sorry to have spoken’ what I do have is thoughts, plenty of them, utterly disorganised and incomprehensible in their nature, but they’re mine, and for some reason I want to write them down.

Also! Living at home, at the age of 23, after 3 wonderful years of doing whatever the heck I wanted at University, is just criminal. NOT ONLY THAT, but I live with 2 men. No women. No women anywhere. I miss women. Can you blame me really? Just simple things like being able to see a nice looking man on TV and say ‘Oooh there’s a nice looking man on TV’, instead of the expected ‘yes, Ella, he is a nice looking man isn’t he, haha, let’s discuss the potential that we will one day meet him, marry him and produce a million of his children’ I’m met only with grunts. And farts. And very loud eating. How can anyone eat that loudly? I just don’t understand it. So here I can tell cyber space about my various adventures and maybe have more womanly conversations with myself.

So there’s the self-apologetic spiel over and done with. Now! What do I say? Well, today I’ve been thinking about books. I do like a nice book. But what I hate, with a deep and growling passion, is starting a new book. Especially after just finishing a really incredible book... which I just have. I read In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, and it was insanely brilliant. And now, I feel like anything I read will just be disappointing. I have another book lined up, but it’s one of those books that people say ‘Oh it’s a really good story’ or ‘you can’t put it down’. I don’t really like those kinds of reading experiences. I do, without being pretentious, enjoy a challenge, something that makes me concentrate and think ‘wow, if I could do things like that with the English language I’d just grin at myself in a mirror all day’. An easy read just feels a bit like cheating. And yes, I’m a snob when it comes to books, but only because when reading, we invest so much time in trying to empathise with characters and follow twisty-turny plots, but ‘easy reads’ just do all that fun stuff for you. It’s all on a plate. Leave something to the imagination! It’s easy to tell a good story, but it is not easy to write well (as I’m proving in grand style), authors who do both are the saviours of a boring summer. The end.