Fucking car alarms

I kind of want to start a blog. I've been thinking about it for a while, actually, which then led me to a huge internal debate about the rationale behind blogging, the merits of it, how stupid it might be (conclusion--stupid). Also, what the meaning was of having your private thoughts posted on a semi-public forum, therefore clearly intending them to be public but at the same time having it as a sort of venting brainsteam method and thus, the deep meaning behind blogging: reaching out to others through the privacy of our thoughts. Are we blogging for ourselves? Are we blogging to reach the world?

Well. Clearly since I posted on this new thing (this shit was confusing to create, there were all these strangely named possible layouts and my vague memories of livejournal editing got mixed up with this and also with Neopets, both of which were my incentive for learning html--and then I forgot it all. backslash memory) I did get a blog. I caved. My blog white flag is waving. White blog flag. Blag. I wonder how many blogs start out with self-aware blog posts, all rambling about "I was thinking about getting a blog..."

Something interesting I just found in a notebook margin and which I want to think about more later: "Stereotypes are not not true, they are simply incomplete." 

Going back to blogging, and writing though. When I was younger, I came up with a dramatic statement in my head about why people addressed their diaries and journals as if they were human, in the form of Dear Diary, etc etc. Actually, this wasn't that commonplace apparently but for some reason I was under the impression that it was. Anyway, I decided that we addressed our journals because it was the most perfect connection we could ever make to any other being, since it was essentially to ourselves and thus to someone entirely trustworthy and understanding, but we were deluding it into an act of confiding in someone else. It was our attempt to make our most deeply personal sharings an act of human connection. Of course, since the premise was false, the only place that statement could lead to was depression. 

This made me begin to write some sort of story about a person with a computer connected to their brain except the computer was once a human being. In a fit of cleverness I named the within-computer-human Mind. The main character had Mind in her mind and was basically schizophrenic, except Mind could turn on lights and adjust thermostats. Essentially I wrote a story about a schizophrenic universal remote. 

Sometimes I think about how our thoughts are cyclical. We can think about ourselves thinking about our thoughts about thinking. The problem with thinking like this is that I get overwhelmed and kind of mentally dizzy, like I've looked through too many mirrors all reflecting each other. 

Also it may be a product of it being 3 the fuck AM. Shit. Things are running through my mind like they usually do at this hour, and everything is interesting and more crazy than normal.