lots of words

In the past few weeks, I've had different people tell me that I'm closed off, closely guarded, private. I never really thought of myself that way. I usually feel like I walk around with a giant neon sign above my head, flashing my problems to world. Lately, the feeling has been compounded. My emotions are raw. My nerves are frayed. I'm not in control. Of anything.

I was at therapy a few weeks ago and as I was talking about me, my shit, and what I'm doing about said shit, my therapist says to me, "have you ever thought about writing a book?". Eh. Sure. Lots of times. Trouble is, I can't really think of anything that would be interesting enough to write about, much less something that would compete on shelf space at the local bookstore to sell any copies. She went on to say that I seem very expressive and that writing about my process of de-shitting might be of help to other people who are going through similar shit. Okay. I suppose. Thing is, I'm not 100% ready to go public with said shit. But it got me thinking. Maybe a fictional account of someone named Daphne might do. Maybe that might help me get to it. Maybe I should give it a try.

Would anyone really be interested in reading about my walk into hell and back?

I really, really hate you Blogger.

You have sucked my will to blog out of me. Your new, and nary improved, 'layout' templates are crap. They are user friendly for anyone who has no desire to do something other that stroke your blogging ego. Your commenting feature stinks. You don't play nice with code from Haloscan. You make it difficult for me to drink wine and wax philosophically on my blog. Did you know that it's really hard to open a bottle of wine whilst holding a chocolate frosting-covered graham cracker AND figure out why Blogger hates America at the same time? Well it is. No thanks to you. What is a girl who wants a semi-custom blog to do?

Feh.