I'll try . . .

I wasn't going to write tonight; I couldn't imagine writing through the headache.  Well, I call them headaches; they start somewhere in the middle of my back, a ball of tightly wound tension that slowly branches off and runs up the back of my neck stopping somewhere mid-temple.  It's clear they have something to do with the weather, and the medical experts on the interwebs seem to think you can discover the trigger if you pay close attention to the atmospheric conditions-- barometric pressure, humidity, etc.--that accompany them. I've always wanted to figure this all out, but, in the end, it's always the last thing I want to do when I have a headache.  

I was thinking there is something about the ostensible publicity of this that blogging thing bothered me.  Can I really use this to cultivate good writing habits when there's always an outside chance someone might read it? Can I be honest? Sloppy?  It's not like journal or diary, buried in an out-of-the-way desk drawer, beneath a stack of old pay stubs, broken pencils, and rolls of pennies you've been meaning to take to the bank for about 3 years.  The blog is there for everyone to see, public, out in the open.

Then I realized I was exactly wrong.  This is much more inconspicuous than a journal.  People always find your journal--they're rummaging through a desk drawer, looking for scissors, or a paperclip, maybe Chapstick, and there it is, right in front of you.  And who can resist the desire to read someone's else's deepest thoughts, their regrets, hopes, fantasies? Who can resist the urge to discover that your best friend or closest family member is just a little more fucked up than you are and, perhaps, a little more interesting than you thought.

But reading someone's blog, that's a different story.  First, stumbling across this thing is unlikely (what combination of search terms would bring this up on the Google?).  Second, if I did stumble on something like this, I think I'd just move on.  I can't imagine most people find the random thoughts of some self-absorbed stranger all that interesting.  Or maybe that's just me.