I have been taking a peek at my old entries in this modest space on the net that I like to call my weblog. I noticed a number of depressing things.

One is that I used to write relatively well. I used to care about not only my grammar, word usage and spelling, but also language, context, content and stories. You know those stories… the ones that brought you onto the train or bus with me. Or better yet, into my base for a few minutes. This dates back to the things I wrote before the big “DELETE” that I had. I wish I could get those entries back. I used to be able to put my feelings on “paper”. Actually, I don’t think I have lost the ability to put things on paper; I believe that I have in fact lost the ability to feel all together.

I used to be so incredibly passionate. I was looking over my Friendster profile (thanks) and I had listed a slew of things that used to interest me. I had to delete most of them because I no longer give a flying fuck. I realized recently that I no longer give a flying fuck about much.

[And no, it’s not because I started hanging out with you. I don’t know if you remember this because you were so drunk, but I was complaining about how my brain is fading and you said it’s probably because I am hanging out with you. I would argue that you’re actually bringing back the old me – the one that enjoys herself. Anyway, here’s your shout out right in the middle of my blog entry that you asked for.]

Let me begin by pointing out that I work a job that rots my brain; I have no need to be creative here. It is not necessary for me to interact in a creative and socially acceptable fashion with those around me. It is all informal hurry rush speed to get things done that have deadlines at the last minute. Before the impending doom of a deadline sets in, it is mostly sitting around and teasing each other or trying to delve into each other’s personal lives. And most of the biggest offenders are gone right now.

I am going to try to write in my not-so-beloved blog more often so that I am not married to the fruitless tens of thousands of pages of rants and raves on Chicago’s craigslist.

Maybe I will go back to school in January. Maybe I’ll work on a Master’s program for some field into which I am not sure I want to venture. That will put me well into debt. I can finally see the light with regard to my debt; it’s not looking as dim anymore. And that’s comforting. Unfortunately, my brain is dimming as my debt is shrinking.

What the hell am I afraid of? Spending my time caring about people and causes only to get screwed over in the end? What is the point of that? Isn’t life for living? I am trying to live and feel like I used to, but in my old age I have become Kautious Kristy. I am afraid of feeling, caring and getting hurt. I am afraid of saying what I feel because I fear that I will not be taken seriously. Who am I to be so self absorped, anyway? I have it pretty good.

As my lovely Allman Brothers myspace song states, I Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More. This is it. This is life. And as a wise man once said, “if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it”.