This morning, an ASPCA commercial came on and I switched the channel to a horrid rerun of Two and a Half Men just to escape it. It wasn’t even one of the Sarah McLachlan ones, just an ordinary slow-motion, stringed-instrument informercial begging for help. I can’t stand to watch them because they’re a punch in my soft heart. Anything to do with the mistreatment of animals knots up my stomach – I can’t even handle movies where animals suffer before their happy endings.
Right, blogging. That thing I do to maintain my online cred and market myself as a writer. When I blog, I prefer to write anecdotes, or short essays – the sort of thing you might find in a magazine – or at least something more interesting than a catalogue of what I’ve had to eat.
If you’re a writer, you’ve heard it before – and you’ll hear it over, and over, and over again. The Write Life is frustrating, sometimes depressing, and not a career path any sane person would choose. That’s how you know you’re a writer – you don’t choose this life, it chooses you.
It’s an increasing epidemic in my neighborhood. I don’t live in the middle of nowhere, some farm in the country where the nearest automobile is a tractor. I live in West Hollywood, a dense, urban area where people race SUVs down narrow streets and the pedestrians aren’t much better.
So when I see people walking their dogs without leashes, it makes me furious.
In order to achieve internet domination, I’ve been reliably informed that I should post something every day on this blog, which is a tall order when daily life is dull and I don’t particularly want to blog without something interesting to share.