Ceci n'est pas une cybercarnet.

Hi.

How's it going?
Remember me?
I was that guy whose blog you used to read.

No, not him.

Yeah, that's right, the drunk one.
The drunk, angry, angsty one who slept with a succession of single mothers and that one married girl.

The one who mostly talked about girls, but threw some music and pop culture in there every once in a while, and even some personal opinion or politics, on rare occasion.

I started this blog when I couldn't get out of bed.
I had no job, no direction, had a stupid little fucked up girl destroy my ego (not that I didn't do my self-destructive best to force her hand).
I was filled with self loathing, and empty of any drive or desire.

Then I, with the help of a professional, and a drinking problem, sort of pulled my self out of apathy and into wild, wanton, nihilism.

And it was good.

But, nothing good lasts for ever.
I had to move on, because, honestly, a 26 year old, semi-employed drunkard who claims to want to be a writer can only get away with so much (3 moms, one married girl, countless other unmarried, childless women) before he sort of has to write something. Otherwise, he's just a womanzing drunk, and not an artiste.

So the grad school thing.

That drama played nicely for the (computer) screen for a while, and there was the added element of cryptic postings to a former flame trying to woo her from her beau.

But let me be straight with you now, kids.

Somewhere, I've lost the plot.

When I started the spigot, I got it, I felt blogging, I seethed it, I loved, I hated it, I threw it against walls, I went back to it after it hit me, because it promised things would be different from now on, it put up with my drinking, simply put, I loved blogging, and blogging loved me.

But I don't even know who blogging is anymore.
I don't bring it flowers,
It doesn't sing me love songs.

So I'm working on new ideas.
Some tentative plans:
Once weekly culture picks by the spig (this week: Movie- Lost in Translation, Music- the Frames, Book- Youth in Revolt)
A sort of serial novel, or better yet, interactive novel thingy, like the hypercard books for those of you who are old and geeky enough to remember.
And I fully intend on starting a new, secretincognito blog, ala some people I know.

It's like a stale relationship.
You start growing apart, and then maybe you try and spice things up with a little role-playing, some bondage, maybe a three-some.
But eventually, things fall apart.
But the Spig isn't going to fall apart, it may languish a bit here and there, while I look for blogging direction (odd, isn't it, that when my life had no direction, my blog had acres, and now that my life is going almost swimmingly, the blog flounders. Better to have a good life and a troubled blog, than a good blog about a troubled life.)

Always remember:
beert puwy rgI id o.

P.S. find Sometimes by My Bloody Valentine, and put it in the car stereo, wait until just before sunset on one of those bright white cloudless empty sky days where if you filmed it on video, the whites would blow out the screen, go to that sort of empty, warehouse type district of your city, preferably by a river, turn it all the way up, and just drive around with your left hand (or right hand if a friend is driving, or you live in Britain or something) out the window making the little waves in the air like it's surfing along the tides of guitar. And if you smoke, light one up for this. And think of being a teenager, think of that first person you loved, think of that first thing you did that you thought was truly great, think of the first truly evil thing you did, think of that time you were with your friends, driving around, much like this, and it felt so good it hurt, and you thought this feeling could really go on forever, that this painful, horrible pleasure could just swallow you whole, and that would be the way it should be, the time when things were raw, when you were cynical, but even your cynicism carried a passion, when you cared about things, when things drove you, when there were things you had to do, things you had to tell the world, or just your best friend, when secrets were powerful, when things really mattered. Take that feeling that wells up inside, take it and grab it so tightly that your fingers go numb, and never, ever let it go again.

You can thank me later.