a lot.

I talk a lot. A lot. It's not intentional, or something i'm unaware of, it's just something about myself that i have yet to discover how to control (like not flinching when there's a rubber band pointed at me or laughing when people fall down.) Every thing i do, i do a lot. I take photos. A lot. I love a lot. So much, a lot. So completely, entirely, a lot. The only plausible (preferable) explanation that i have happened upon is that i just have to much clutter in the brain box, & not enough organization to conquor it.
I used to write a lot. Constantly, a lot. Until one day. It stopped. I was glad for it, in a way, because, while i had lots & lots of words (like, loquacious,) & a lot of interesting ways to use them, i never really had very much to say. Sadly, this is the same way i would categorize my speaking habits.
SO! In comes a blog. Which, despite the idea of anonymity (of which i am so fond,) has been nearly impossible to write. Nothing to say, i suppose. I have the hardest time starting anything. The idea of finality is paralyzing. I can never name pets, or start sketchbooks. I have half a dozen address books that i've never written an entry in! 'What if i lose that pen?' 'What if he doesn't turn out to be much of a Berlioz?'
But now this is done, typed. So perhaps, talking (a lot,) can become blogging a lot. It's still writing, & it's still communicating. Let's hope it works. Blogging. About nothing to particular, to no specific style or subject. Plenty of room to grow & talk about art &/or world issues &/or how dumb everyone is &/or sex (well, maybe not, because nobody likes a negative nelly, & world issues sure are a downer, debbie.)