Most of the time I'm rather prissily proud of only ever wanting to post well-thought-out, perfectly composed and elegantly written journal posts. It makes me feel highbrow. It has its downsides, though, like tonight when I really feel like spilling stuff out, everything from whimsy (I'm turning into a fountain-pen nerd) to venting (my favourite local LAN gaming den is starting to get really seedy and depressing) to heartfelt personal stuff (family stuff, health stuff, I think I'll pass on details, actually) I put myself off. I start plotting out a couple of thousand words of text, developing a theme and an argument, working through openings, taking care on the pacing and diction and fuck it. Another time. Nothing personal, my dear impersonal reader, whoever and wherever you might be in SG-land, but I've made an executive decision. It's a scotch-and-crash night, not a journalling night. Sorry. Sweet dreams.
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maxi:
oh and mulled cider
aya:
Ice cream flavours that remind us of more innocent times are always good flavours.
