Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
Most webloggers post links to interesting tidbits or other weblogs, inserting comments as appropriate. Other webloggers post notes to their blogs about events in the day — writing to a diary in the sky. There are funny weblogs and mad weblogs and work weblogs and awards weblogs and so on.
And then there are the ones like me, who drop everything in your lap with the ease of the clumsiest of waiters. I’m blue, you’ll hear about it. I’m sad, you’ll hear about it. I’m mad — well, we already how much you hear of that.
With me, you’re all peeping toms, except instead of peeking through a window and seeing my naked body, you’re reading my weblog and seeing my naked soul. On a daily basis, I scrape part of my existence off, and serve it to you on toast made of cosmos and thinly stretched wire. Shelleymite.
Good, now that the squeamish have left, we can get down into some deeper talk.
I walked along the beach tonight as sunset folded into the darkness and thought about the funny directions my life has taken, and the directions it will be taking. I thought about my decision to move to St. Louis and what that meant, and I knew that this was a path I’m no longer meant to take. My direction lies elsewhere now. I’ll make my home as best as I can in the shadow of the bridges.
I thought about my writing and my weblog and about you, who are reading this.
And one final thing I thought of: I will no longer celebrate my love of life and my delight in people by allowing ugliness on this weblog. I may write of things that aren’t pretty, and I may be shallow or twisted and I may burn and I may laugh and cry or pontificate and tease and joke and a host of other things — but I will not allow ugliness on this weblog again.
My guarantee. Not to you, no offense. To myself.
Shelleymite — tastes just like chocolate.
Update: And all my regular weblog readers are going “Yeah. Right. We’ve heard this before. Pull the other one, Shelley.”
No seriously. I mean it this time. Honest. Cross my heart. <edit />