Dear Diary

I wonder, can a man have a diary? I think Webster said something about diaries being objects possessed by the female sex only. Or maybe not.
So, dear journal....OH! I just thought of something! What if I called this my "log"? You know, like "Captain's log, stardate, 2359." That would be so cool. Of course, I'm not a captain....although,, I aspire to be. Hmm, maybe someday... Anyway, just because I'm not a captain doesn't mean I can't have a log...damnit! One more query: Is there any connection between the terms "blog" and "log"? Is blog short for bslog, as in, "bull shit log," given that so much bloggage really amounts to a lot of bullshit. Like, for example, this particular blog...I mean...entry in my log. Whatever.
Ok, so I've been wondering how to approach this blog thing. There are so many ways I could write...so many voices or styles I could adopt. There's a spectrum stretching from nonsense to reason to choose from. From writing in a completely abstract, ridiculous way, to analyzing every "problem" and "issue" that seem to involve themselves in my life--or life in general--in a completely logical, methodical way. In these blogs, I could reveal nothing of myself. Or, instead, I could reveal things even my mother doesn't know about me. Actually, I've become good at writing as exploring. --Exploring my own nature. So, when I write, and when you read my writing, I am actually finding things out about myself on the spot. I write in order to think in a disciplined, structured, or even "higher" way. I've found that sort of writing to be the best method for coming to any new, grand realization/revelation about myself or the world. Of course, I've got to be in the mood for such realizations/revelations. hmm... Tonight, I think I'll keep things simple and write a log entry:
[Josh's Log; 3.6.2005] I woke up today before my alarm went off, as usual; and I swore, which is not that unusual. See, I'm not a big fan of waking up. Waking up sucks. Sleep--now that's more like it. I can really get it on with some good sleep. So, upon waking, I said something like "fuck." I suppose that if I didn't have such a nice bed and teddy bear (actually a stuffed koala bear--damn that Teddy Roosevelt for his monopoly on anything brown, cuddly, and bear-like) I'd not hate leaving them so much. I went to work. Work was busy. Very busy. I sold bikes. I sold tubes. I worked a cash register. I ran around a lot. I never yelled at anyone. I'm a good employee. In fact, I'd go so far as say that I'm an asset to my company. I made my bosses some money and went home. I went straight away to cleaning my upstairs bathroom. The full bathroom. Not the halfabathroom. The one with the bath in it. Which was the focus of the whole cleaning thing I took up. I don't know about you, but I like to think of a bath as a place you can lay down and sort of role around in... My bath, before I got silly with the AJAX and green brillow pad, wasn't a place I'd like to stretch out in and splish splash. Before the cleansing, soap scum and mildew were really chapping my hide. So, I got in there and didn't stop getting silly with the AJAX and green brillow pad until all that soap scum and mildew were obliterated. Fuckin soap scum....teach you!
Then the fun began. This girl I know stopped by and wanted to do some things. Things are what we did. We went for a walk down Warm Springs Avenue and talked about death and suicide. I told her about a dream I had about a recently deceased friend in which the friend had to bang and yell inside his coffin so that someone would discover that he was still alive. She told me about how someone told her once that he wished he would have offed himself a long time ago. It was a lighthearted conversation, to say the least. As we walked, we talked more. We actually talked about politics. We totally did it! And we didn't even throw up in our mouths a little! Quite the accomplishment, huh? Perhaps it was because we were talking about the community politics of Portland, Oregon; which is a much more tasteful subject than the politics of Washington D.C. or Idaho. So, pretty soon we started going up. The trail took us to a rocky bluff that looks nothing like a castle. But it did have some decent sitting spots among the rocks---spots perfect for "scoping" and sipping wine....with our pal, Vern, the Dorittos Killer. Really folks, if you take a nighttime hike by yourself and come upon a couple sipping wine on a scenic bluff, do everyone a favor and don't sit five feet off to their right, light up a cigarette, and insert random comments into their conversation. Vern, I appreciate the insight about the still air and all, but common dude... Anyway, this girl I know and I had a lovely time, in spite of the strange life form entity sitting nearby which fed off of our romantic energy. After heightening our senses on Castle Rock (listening, looking, tasting, and feeling), we did some snooping. Quick everyone!: Where is the perfect place to go snooping in Boise? Well, we went there, and it was hella fun. We hid in the shadows in and around the old pen'. The authorities were definitely out to get us, but we were determined to not let them take us alive. We moved like ninjas from shadow to shadow, methodically advancing towards freedom. The greatest part of it all was the tresspassing. We actually slid under an iron fence and entered the botanical gardens. We could have totally made off with like one million dollars worth of rose bushes and garden benches! The garden was ours, and we romped through it with zeal. Finally, we decided that our luck was probably getting pushed, so we shimmied back under the iron fence and walked through the pen' on our way back home. Along the way, we were able to deduce who the Dorittos killer was--several little tiny flags that happened to make crunching sounds (like someone eating Dorittos or walking over gravel) when they whipped around in the slight breeze. Weeeird! We walked home. I forced this girl I know to watch an XTREME! mountain biking video. Then this girl left me all alone. the end.