Dear Diary,

We are really too old for trivial attachments like blogs or nick-handles, or anything virtual for that matter although that seems to be pretty much all there is to life these days.
Srsly. The world wide web does not care what you had for lunch, what great melancholy you're facing, what the weekend's itinerary would read like.
And although I have wasted and contributed to wasted bandwidths (and I apologise, still), I am too much of an elitist to admit that my thoughts, emotions, musings, could be any more trite than yours - cause yours really takes the cake, lah.

I'm speaking in general, directing my anger to the general, cause I, like the rest of you, am entitled to my shiny happy fits of rage. Online, nonetheless.

Okay I bring age into this argument perhaps cause I've had this thing/blog pretty much ever since I was 17. And I'm 24 now, and so what do we, young adults like naturally and quite coolly evolve to? Telepathic blogs? Scribing thoughts on club walls, office cubicles, park benches? Within crevices logged in to only by drunks, rats and ants?

I don't really care (actually). I'm a whir of sneezes, headaches and fuzzy plastic bottles. And contemplating on random and intrepid things keeps me from succumbing to illness and misery and there I go again whining. You win blogspot, you win! *fists raised*

There's always that natural inclination to go opinion-opulent as soon as your fingers hit the keys. I blame the aesthetic satisfaction of Blogspot's entry page - the inviting blues and oranges - placed and tinted in just the right hues - the thick strip of blue cheering your blog name as if it was the most important piece of human history in all of eternity, the Garamond fonts, links, hinting "You're in control. We merely prompt, but you fill", oh I swear it's all psychological. And it works dammit!

I type and type and type and type - no longer because I have a message to share (those that I have are hardly understood nor related to anyway), but to keep up with the efforts already invested in my own efforts to share! It's all quite a trip, really.

If Blogspot knew: how I sneak poems and private thoughts into Livejournal (purely cause names need to be dropped and feelings protected), how I whore myself for approval on Facebook (yes, Facebook, I'm sorry!), how my words are as scattered around the world wide web (not contained, kept in line, as first promised 7 years ago) like the splattering of brain tissue and cranium at first gunpowder crackle.

Fuck there are ants on my table and they are fucking biting me. I could be paranoid about it and read it as a sign. But I think I will pass simply because I'm too ill to include that as another long, inane entry.

Although it would be cool to have your very own human blog. Perhaps like an orphan child, adopted just to carry on within him, your thoughts, ideals, daily ramblings and musings - repeating them to people he meets - classmates, the ice-cream man, strangers, teachers - spreading your bitter and self-indulgent messages and epiphanies till kingdom come.

Oh wait, I believe they're already practicing that. It's called parenthood.

Which brings me to point 2. Much too much too old to be still harboring gripes about one's parents. But srsly people, my mom takes the cake, the pastry shoppe, the baker, and all primordial ingredients that came with all of the above. She the nuclear bombz yo. And I'm still reeling. Definitely.