The feeling usually comes on at some odd moment spurred by some odd impetus or provocation -- some totally random encounter with the name of a long-misplaced friend, some flicker of memory relating to some curiously powerful moment from a decade or three mostly forgotten, some up close and personal encounter with a mouth-breathing dipshit at some local business or office -- and suddenly I feel an instinctive need to blather on about it.
I have no idea if most people understand this urge, or if this is a strange affliction seen in only that verbose and pale minority known as "writers," but for me somehow dissembling a thing and grinding it into mnemonic paste and then mixing the resultant slop back into a meatloaf of memory, spiced with whatever I feel like throwing into the bowl and fluffed up by what breadcumbs I can find and then kinda sorta held together by spit and egg whites.
Drizzled in ketchup.
A hundred odd questions I want to ask myself and then hang around and hope I bother to answer.
Strange connections between stuff I'd forgotten I'd once felt to stuff I didn't know I now was feeling.
Grievances and complaints and grumblings and assorted pissy little blurts and burps which as often as not are a reminder to myself to shut up and laugh off the minor complaint and remain more aware and thankful for the big ticket items which far far more often than not still seem to break in my favor.
Song lyrics that make me laugh, frustrations that make me want to punch a nun, and obscure admissions of things most folks will never even suspect.
I still have no idea what the purpose of a blog is. I still have no clue why anyone reads these things. I still lack any understanding of how to turn this waste of words and bandwidth into anything potentially useful or lucrative.
Yet still I come back, urping up words.
On the bright side, maybe I'll become rich and famous at some point and all the crap smeared about here will then become a lovely ego-crushing embarrassment.
Now *that* would be amusing.