I'm starting to like the fact that my blog is just a peep in the cacophony of sound and fury known as the blogosphere. I mean, really, besides a few dollars from Google Adwords, what are the benefits of fame when it comes to trying to be real. I say, trying, because I am desperately weak for approval - and, yet, loathe the need for it with the disdain raw food eaters have for McDonald's. If my goal in life is to keep it real, obscurity fits me better than my new Fry's boots (love having money to shop!).

Besides that fact that blogging has degenerated not only my writing skills, but my ability to stay focused on a single thought, it does allow me to vomit the frothy surface layer of my emotions and to mix metaphors in really bizarre ways for only $8 a month - which is pretty cheap therapy. Nobody said therapy had to be interesting, and since this blog is about the search God, love and a really good therapist, this entry is very on-theme.

With that said, I realized that now that I have a Real Job, I have also relinquished my right to act cute. And, it's not just because I'm getting older. There's just no way to tell a male what needs to git done in an assertive voice and seem non-threatening. They just don't go together, unless you're a kindergarten teacher.

Wow, I have a lot on my mind for a Saturday.

Just for today, I can keep my blog real and disorganized (and really disorganized).