03/01/2009
It is here on this day, the 3rd of January 2009, that I find myself inevitably drawn to the idea of keeping a diary, a journal, a log. The memory splinter nagging the flesh of my thoughts at this moment is that of past attempts at keeping a journal. I first tried when I turned 13yrs old in 1991. It was called “Shane Butler – The Teenage Years”. I would’ve called said literary diatribe “Shane Butler - The Wonder Years” but that didn’t seem appropriate. Not because of certain Fred Savage television show but because my childhood was littered not as much with wonder as it was with a series of explosive and awkward growth spurts. “Dear Diary, today I grew another couple of metres and continue to resemble a giraffe on rollerskates”.
The diary was, of course, pen and paper. Only the wealthy had home computers. Laptops were of a size rivalling that of a small sedan and the internet, let alone the term ‘blog’ was still something familiar only to Buck Rogers. For those of you familiar with my munted concentration span and lack of self discipline, it will come as no surprise that “Shane Butler – The Teenage Years” last less than two weeks and the diary was used as kindling for the living room fireplace. Righteous.
It wasn’t until 2006 and the arrival of Myspace.com that the need to document my day to day to week to month to year to marriage to second marriage to mental asylum administration became too bullying to ignore anymore. With Myspace came the trend that is weblog or blog as it’s more commonly known. Although blogging sounds like something you should do with a girlie magazine and a gym sock, it is in fact something far more unwarranted. It’s a digital voice for the whinging masses and it’s proof read by naught but bias. I’m indeed aware of the inherent hypocrisy when complaining about whinging. And now that I’ve decided to publish this diary entry on the net, it’s hypocrisy squared.
All that really matters is, last night, I accidentally saw up a young woman’s dress. Take THAT Fred Savage!
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I still prefer old school diaries but I'm so OCD I hate the look of my own writing and it makes me angry. But, I reckon you wouldn't be angry if every time you filled one out you saw up a young woman's skirt. I said you, not me. Ha!
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