I realized I haven't written anything here in more than six months. I've been slacking. Not that anyone reads these things anyway, but it's the principle of the thing. I consider myself to be a writer, but I haven't journaled -- here or pretty much anywhere else -- since coming to DC.

Right now I should be addressing wedding invitations or rearranging stuff that we moved from the old apartment today. Instead, I'm on here, screwing around and wasting time. It's one of my first nights of me-time since Travis moved out here, and I just want to enjoy it.

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Everything in life seems to be in flux right now. Sometimes it's good flux, sometimes it's bad flux. This week, it's a mix. I guess that's par for the course when you're getting married, but I still worry about it sometimes. Hell, earlier this week, I was waking up with my heart racing and my brain running in circles over some of it. Do I really have to be a grownup now?

Actually, I know I have to be a grownup now because we're going to Ikea tomorrow to look for a rug for the living room floor (to cover up the surround sound speaker wires) and shelving for one of the closets. And we just bought a couch. I'm breaking it in as I type. I predict I'll still be breaking it in when Travis gets off work and comes home in two hours. Just doing my adult-ly duty.

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I think I journal less online because I've realized that no one really cares what I have to say. And why should they? To most people online, I'm a complete stranger prattling about perfectly prosaic events that happen to everyone. What makes it compelling? probably not my writing style. So why read it?

And by extension, why write it? I tried to tell myself for a while that I was writing for myself. That it didn't matter who did and didn't read what I wrote. I was writing for my own personal edification. For stress relief. To relieve my boredom. Because I felt alone.

I lied to myself.

At least half the time, I wrote because I wanted to at least pretend that someone read it and cared about what happened in my life. And it made me feel witty.

Then I started reading The Express on my way to work every morning, and I realized that I didn't care about what people had to say in the Blog Spot section. And if I didn't care what they had to say, why would anyone care what I had to say? So I pretty much stopped writing.

Unfortunately, this also stopped the introspection and the self-examination that came out of the entries I locked so that no one could read them. As a result, I'm not sure that I've grown much in the past year. There are times when I think I've regressed, actually, gotten less mature. That needs to change. I don't know that I'll bring back the online journal, but I need to do something.