Then again, it could be the pretty cover
I went to see the Cardinals beat the Cubs yesterday. With Eric. The Pissed-off Bastard opted, instead, to stay home and watch golf. Eric and I took the 1860s shuttle to the game, and had some difficulty finding it after the game. So, we decided to walk. That's nice, you know, to be able to walk home from the baseball game. Like we live in a real city. In any case, the shuttle driver saw us and picked us up on Broadway and even acquiesed to my request that we stop by the Liquor Store (so I could get some rum). I bought big beers, even, for my fellow shuttle riders. Which was pointless, since Richard provides free beer on the shuttle. I wish it were that way at work. It's been a long day, it's finally 4:30, 5--you've waited 10 minutes for the shuttle, but that's okay, the driver hands you a cold Bud Light for the trip to your car. Perhaps I will suggest such a service.
In the writing of my second in the series, "The People I Know" I had to do a little research to fill in a gap or two (like the person's last name, which was on the tip of my brain, yet completely inaccessible.) In the course of this research, I discovered that he killed himself two years ago. The one date I had with him happened about 5 years ago--this month or next. He dissed me. Sort of. You know, I wonder if he was battling demons then--it might explain some things, really.
Anyway, the Kevin Clyde memorial episode will be appearing tomorrow or Monday at "I Can Tell You the Things That You Know."
Two weeks ago, I volunteered at the "Speaking of Women's Health" event at the Chase. In return I received one of the gift-filled nylon gym bags that were given to each participant. One of my gifts was a sturdy, wire bound journal courtesy of American Greetings.
Seduced by the pretty cover and the nicely-weighted, lined paper, I've begun to keep a written journal. Sure, I've been seduced by pretty covers before, but my attempts at maintaining a journal in the past have been short-lived. In fact, I came across my most recent attempt from 1996 and nearly died of embarrassment--the language was stilted and for all intents and purposes, read as if I were trying to justify my life, or how I was spending it anyway--along with a few saccharine pages of angst for good measure.
Looking back at my new journal and the few entries there, I realize I've come a long way as a diarist since 1996. I think because I'm so used to having my personal life "out there" as a result of my blog, that I'm not self-conscious about writing about me. Additionally, I don't feel a need to recount events as much as I'm just writing how I feel about them. It's very different, but far more real-sounding, than any other journal I've ever kept.