A pre-emptive apology...

...for some sadly depressing ramblings.
Made plans for a dinner date next Thursday with a girlfriend I haven't seen in some time. I'm not the most socially competent person (people really do scare the bejesus out of me!) and I can't help but try to rehearse some potential conversation topics and/or fillers. Unfortunately, my mind is in a rather pessimistic/nihilistic state, so, the conversations running through my head border the "What's the point of it all?" vein or "I'm so bored...Is this really what life is?". Hmm...Those might be the same.
Just wanted to get this off my chest. Pretty sure I need to increase my Prozac dosage...

Let me explain...

Virginia Woolf (it's hard not to picture Elizabeth Taylor-in all her crazy splendor-whenever I reference Ms. Woolf) wrote, or rather compiled, "A Room of One's Own" in 1929. It's the derivation of a lecture series that, in the most simplistic of summations, argues for a woman's need of her own means of support, a way that she may be free of the shackles of her father and the prescribed husband. It's the only way a woman may discover in herself that individual genius that so many men had been afforded due to their own financial independence. Of course, she committed suicide not 12 years later.

Which leads me to my explanation. I've started to wonder lately whether or not any person, woman or man, really needs a "room" of their own. Certainly, the space, the quiet, the sense of independence and freedom can't be bad. Even psychologically, it assumes that one's "made" it, which ought to impart a certain confidence in and of itself. I digress...

The point is, why would one need (or even want) a room of one's own when it's hard enough to escape the trappings of one's own mind? I mean, maybe we ought to be aspiring or meditating to some astral plane of a room, free of the cobwebs and ghosts that haunt our thoughts. That, I can maybe agree to, but, greater loneliness than one already has in one's head? Oh hell no. Not for me.

These trappings lead us to weigh our pockets with stones, walking hopelessly into the waters of a river...Or, drive us batty like Martha...or even me.

Enter the blog. Better than a diary: shared anonymously with the world, open to interpretation and comment. An outlet for musings, a permeable trapping constructed of 0s and 1s, open, malleable and backspace-able.

And even if no one else finds it entertaining (can't help but find the negative in everything. My mind's trappings are rather Auschwitz right now.), it's my own. Venting, rambling, silly and inane.