margaret edith

I’m in a post-Christmas slump and without the frenetic pace of the holidays, I feel like a lame kid on a bicycle, spinning my pedals too fast without getting traction.  And thus, perhaps it is time to put my idle hands to some typing and finally create a blog.  Perhaps it will be a good way to better exercise my writing chops, which were only stretched a bit by the novel I tried to start.  Or maybe I will get some inner sense of cool from having joined the masses here.  Or possibly, I’ll lose interest and go back to my obsessive cyber stalking of other people.

I seem to have a minor problem with the cyber stalking.  It feels so good to know someone else’s secrets.  Although, I suppose they’re not secrets if you’re broadcasting them out into the ether.  But I do know that these are not things I should be privy to.  So while it is delicious, it’s delicious like too many sour cream and chive potato chips:  I end up feeling gross.  And a bit sad.  Although, potato chips don’t make me sad.  Just gross.  And that’s the other thing about this down time.  If I were busy, I could supplant some of this compulsion with something productive, like earning my paycheck.  Instead, I do the rounds obsessively.  Facebook.  Flickr.  Yelp.  Blog.  Facebook.  Flickr.  Yelp.  Blog.  Too often, there are no new updates, which drives me to madness.  More specifically, it drives me to delve into the annals of the blog to dredge up bits of the past.  The past doesn’t feel any better than the present, though.