Blah. Whatever, Etc.

One of the great things about having a public blog is that people around the world can stumble onto my writing simply by searching for things like "I hate Carrie Bradshaw" or "virginity underwear." The flip side is that by having a public blog, anything I write is public. I can't write about my frustrations at work or all the horrible stress with wedding planning (Matt's family felt that a child-free wedding was the most offensive thing Ever--it took 3 months for me to win that fight).

So lately I haven't known what to write here. Do I write about the 3 dead animals I saw on the way home? In care you're wondering, it was a bird, another bird (I think), and a mouse. I suppose I could write about how I thought it might be an omen. Of what, I'm not sure.

I could write about my grandmother's stroke. How her speech is slurred and she can't walk now. How my mom had to clean out her place so once she's released from the hospital she can move to a nursing home. How she told my dad that I should have gotten married sooner since she didn't think she was going to make it to the wedding. But that's depressing. I don't want to think of her losing control of her life (and her bowels).

Basically, I just don't write like I used to. I don't keep a journal or even jot down thoughts in a notebook. A notebook used to be an essential component of my purse--now, I don't even have the passionate feelings I used to write about with such fervor. It's hard to know if over the years I've lost part of myself or if this is just one part of growing up.