My first blog

Of course it's cliche, but it's a fitting title, and any attempt to make it more unique and just as telling would serve neither you nor me any purpose. To chip away at some ice here, I go by Lori. No, it's not my real name, but I guess in this world where the cool guy in the chat room is a sexual predator and every other email is a spammer/phisher trying to steal your identity, one can't be faulted for taking the simplistic approach. Ask for nothing, give less; at least when it comes to the virtual world sitting in a box on your desk.

So obviously, I've never blogged before in my life. In fact, my first, and lets face it, every subsequent attempt at journaling since I was younger fell by the wayside within days. I guess I'm just an efficient person, and have not yet seen any real point to talking (or typing) about yourself incessantly. I don't like reading other people's blogs, and I don't expect many to care much for mine. However, as I read more and more news articles citing blogs and bloggers, I figure there must be something I'm not getting. There is apparently something intriguing, for some at least, about putting their life into words and having it read and judged by anyone who happens by. Or maybe it's that it's read and NOT judged, at least knowingly, that prompts so many people to partake. Whatever the case, I figure I'll give it another go. I'm told I need to let out my emotions anyway, so barring any dastardly attempts to steal my identity or turn my computer into a zombie, nothing bad can come of it, right? I know the hundreds I (or my insurance) will save on psychologist visits doesn't hurt one bit.

So lets start. I am a pretty calm person unless there is a steering wheel in front of me. For some reason, a control device a foot in front of me and 15 inches in diameter in my hands triggers a whole nother level of emotion for me. I think the more modern term is "road rage." Then again, maybe it's not me. Maybe it's just that encasing yourself in metal, plastic, and tinted glass, riding on rubber at break-neck speeds blaring music loud enough to make not only the car, but your entire body rattle takes away the "personal" aspect of getting out of the house. This keeps you from talking to people when you're going from place to place, which in turn keeps people from talking to you. Then they don't care about you, you don't care about them, and nothing positive can come out of the "road relationship" without a fair amount of effort, all things considered, such as waiting while the other person backs out of their parking spot, or letting them in front of you when the highway goes down to two lanes. Unless by some upper-level workings you are put in a situation where that can occur, AND you take the opportunity, AND ditto for the other guy, all that's left are the neutrals and negatives. Trouble is, what's neutral to some is negative to everyone else, like when you are in the right hand lane of a four lane road, at a stop light, intend to go straight, and the person behind you wants to turn right. You didn't do anything, you're just driving. Not too fast, not too slow. Didn't run the red. You're pretty high on yourself right now. Then you look in your rear view and realize the person behind you is cussing up a storm and telling you you're "number 1" with the wrong finger. You should have run the red. Instead, you have an irate bumper buddy inching forward, trying to see how close he can get without hitting you, but hoping you'll get the message that you suck and he has to wait on the light like everyone else when, had you never been born, he would get to turn right at that red and be accelerating on the perpendicular road by now. Way. To. Go. Why don't you just die already. Obviously, there are no true neutrals on the road; only negatives and the occasional positive. Life sucks. So I bitch at everyone who gets in my way, because my mommy always told me to stand up for myself. If I didn't bitch, I would be standing by the way-side, letting everyone put me down undeservedly, and never going anywhere. It's a confidence booster at the very least. And my only decent chance to get all the cursing out of my system until I have to be around people again unaccompanied by my thousand-pound go-faster windbreaker mode of transportation. I've lived with sailors, so the cursing's not going away. The best I can do is hold it in until a more opportune time. It's like constipation, only it doesn't come out the other end. Ha. Pun.

I don't feel like typing anymore, so you're free to go.