As it seems this blog, taken alone, may have provided some of my associates with an inaccurate depiction of my varying qualities and insufficiencies, I have decided to take this opportunity to respond to a few claims levelled at me in recent weeks.
Problems: In an absolute objective sense, I don't really have any. I'm not going to starve. There isn't a rebel army looking to chop me to pieces for being the wrong tribe. I've got all my limbs, most of my mental faculties, and a standard of living the envy of millions. Such difficulties as I may encounter are first world problems; I'm not fabulously rich. The girl I like doesn't like me. I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller (try identifying that song without recourse to the internet!).
A friend of mine recently claimed that I make spilled milk sound like the Noahchian deluge (though not in those terms, which probably goes some way to proving the point). And, I suppose it is a charge with some degree of validity. I concede that the literary style I have affected is burdened by, among other imperfections, an unnecessary recourse to the dramatic. We tend to see formality as an inevitable indication of importance. When it is employed to catalogue personal disappointments, there may seem to be Byronic pretensions.
To the extent that they exist, they're unintended, and really in life I am closer to Charlie Chaplin than Charlton Heston. My problems seem important to me because they are mine, but I do not flatter myself that they are either particularly unique, or unusally oppressive.
Depression: On occasion blogging seems to be, at least for me, nothing other than a litany of literary self-flagellation. This charge, like the other, has a hint of truth to it, but such validity as it may claim is due more to selection bias than simple disatisfaction.
I use my blog as a forum where I can engage my issues on my own terms. It isn't really even meant for public consumption, and while insofar as any reader may derive amusement from my endeavors they are welcome to do so, I write (for the most part) for a solitary, introspective audience.
Accordingly, if I've had an awesome day, or struck some unusual fortune, rarely do I feel the need, or even the interest, to describe it. Like most people, I assimilate success easily. It's only failure that necessitates discussion.
Inhibition: A friend recently accused me of having "taboo" subjects which, I think, is not particularly damning (as we all have our own little limitations), but he meant it to encompass even such topics as should be commonly suitable for discussion. Again I must concede some accuracy in the accusation, but I actually think it misses the mark.
The reality is that I believe I display a remarkable willingness to describe my own limitations and express my frustrations. Admittedly, such volition is restricted primarily to the printed word, but it is at least in a venue of universal exposure.