I'm always really shocked when I realize people actually read this blog. Whenever I write, I usually assume the only ones reading it are my handful of friends and a few on the periphery. To be honest, I'd rather keep this illusion as stage fright occurs when I think about how much I reveal about my life (though I am trying to be better about it compared to my first blog).
Many a things that I write I don't say to people in person, even friends I am most comfortable with, because I just can't imagine anyone wanting to hear me whine all the time. Which is why perhaps writing and blogging is such a seductive pastime, it allows me to whine silently, sans guilt.
But recently, on the Blue Rose Girl blog I posted an excerpt of an essay on racism, which garnered a comment faulting me of excessive negativity. "I just get tired of stories like this," the insightful Sally J. commented.
And I realized silent or not, my words are still bellyaches and groans foisted upon readers. And this, I regret. Perhaps you, dear reader, think I don't have a sense of humor or have an inflated idea of my own importance--both of which is not true (at least I hope not). However, if that has crossed your mind, I am truly sorry.
But there are only about eight people reading this thing anyway, right?