This blog sucks

My blog sucks.

There are two kinds of good blogs: the kind that rarely get updated, but make up for it by being so desperately funny or moving or real, and the kind that are occassionally funny or touching, but get updated all the time so you're at least following along with the saga of their life.

I'd be happy to have the second kind of blog. I'm no Dave Eggers of blogs. But I'm apparently incapable of caring enough to post more than once in a blue moon, with my vague and uninteresting posts, which begs the question why anyone short of a spogger would bother to read it.

Last night my friends and I were discussing the role of blog as confessional. I think people *like* the fact that people they know might find their blog and read the falsely anonymous diary. They get to let those people in on what they think of as "the real me" while imposing a kind of code of silence about it because those people can't admit to having read it without a kind of "snooping" judgement being placed on them.

My blog is particularly poor because the only people that read it are really close to me - so what's the point of confessing to them?

Another point against it is the ludicrous high-concept format that doesn't really work.

Does the universe need this:

Last night my sister was in town and we went to the Chapters (all hail the temple of texts) and I bought this cheesy Shakespeare based tarot set from the bargain bin.

It's so pathetic. I mean, at least a classic deck has some reasonably old tradition behind it to give it a (false?) sense of the wisdom of the ages. This is obvious cash-candy.

So last night after Lady Rose went to sleep I did a reading for myself and found it oddly touching and personal - accurate, encouraging, and challenging in all the ways great mysteries can be. But this morning I have this worry: if I am inspired by this to make a change and it works and my life gets better, am I going to be able to live with the fact that it was caused by a Shakespeare tarot deck?

Everyone get ready to join in on the chorus: He's a lamey... whoa whoa whoa, he's a lamey. Talkin' about my little lamey... and that lamey is lame!

Apparently I'm a little conflicted. (Which the deck predicted! Bah!)

Seriously. Is the world better? Am I better? Would I be typing this if an ulcer attack brought on by poor life choices hadn't awakened me prematurely?

Feh.

Oh, I almost forgot to post an inexplicable image.

Huh. Didn't seem to work. Oh well.