Kudos and double kudos to Manney and Graham for saying what needed to be said, just how it needed to be said. And for teaching me how to link to specific days.

I was actually thinking along the same lines last night, after visiting a few random blogspot blogs. One, called The Beauty of Gray (after the Live song, of course) was really angsty and whiny. In fact, all the blogs I visited randomly were really angsty and whiny.

(These are people I don't know, mind you; I enjoy real people's blogs. Especially Adam's, because no one ever goes there. It's haunted.)

The misunderstood artist here, the dejected would-be romeo there; it's amazing how utterly useless my blog becomes in this huge sea of crap. The scariest part is how similar some of these strangers' blogs are to mine. Reading them was like hearing my effeminate voice on the radio and wondering if that's how I really sound.

It scares me when I'm unoriginal. I can almost always come up with something random and bizarre, but when I try to be deep or well, myself, it comes eerily close to these other low quality webpages I visited. These guys, as a friend of mine once noted, try too hard.

They want to be intellectuals and sit in coffeehouses reading obscure philosophy books and talking about The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which is of course everyone's conception of what an intellectual is.

I wanted this, not too long ago in fact, but I really can't take myself that seriously. I don't think I can take anything that seriously, not all the time. Myself is good enough; forget these images of smoky coffeehouses and stuffy literature. As lame as that sounds, even.

The Diplomat had a booth for Women's Crisis Centers today, and I asked The Diplomat if my donation would end rape forever. He laughed politely and said "here's hoping" so I gave a dollar, but there's no issue that really compels me, beyond vague concepts like Truth. I'm not that intense about things, even very important things, and neither are these people. It's all a show to impress someone, even if someone is only themselves.

Which brings me to my archnemesis, my real archnemesis: Bad Teenage Poetry. When it comes down to it, Bad Teenage Poetry is a lump of wonderful feelings that may seem unique and beautiful to some people but in reality is unoriginal trash:



Or something like that. All these webpages I looked at were uninspired angst; art, for them, is dead.

Most of the time I try not to be like that, so needlessly sentimental, but I know I can be, we all can be. Right now, in fact, I'm being pretty pompous and trite. It's how we build ourselves up, or part of it.

That, and sweeping generalizations based off personal experience that lead us to believe we understand everything about the world. Everything is so dangerous and so understandable when you're an angsty teenage weblogger.

Good gads, I wasted some space here. Well, congratulations if you sifted through that. There'll be another tedious update tonight.