Amateur white guy fails to unload

I found out that I still have a ways to go before I get a good hang on the thing.

Heh.

No, I already regret the crude double entendre, if you must ask, but I'm referring to my lack of proficiency in blogging, not in sex.

The sudden self-awareness moment spurs from the last five minutes, when loud frustration and much swearing could not help me remember several ideas for posts I had yesterday. So not only I put off the writing when I had a bit of (arguable) inspiration, but I managed to forget even the cues that could have helped me later.

Not a great loss, I admit it, so never mind that.

I do have a good post lined up on swearing, though. I remember that. Now, what can I do in the meantime to forget it?

Life expectations

Some day I hope I'll have kids, so that I can ruin their life by giving them too high moral standards for the world they'll be living in.

If I were a Forrest I'd be running that often too

One of the things I love more about weekends is that I can afford to have the attention span of a dog in a park (or of an American 8-year old, if you don't like the classic goldfish).

All the food I bought for the next two weeks is stacked on the kitchen table; every piece of clothing I've worn, bought, washed or otherwise handled is scattered on my bedroom floor; every dish, glass, knife, bowl, tool I've used is impatiently waiting in the sink for when I'm good and ready to wash it.

Of course it has to do with me having to be precise, structured, timely and spot-on in every little thing every working day. I'm not naturally anal like that, so to even it out I have to let go "a little" on weekends. If you're kind-hearted you can call it my artistic side trying to surface. If you aren't you can go f... you get my point.

The one good thing I did, all in all, was a good run this afternoon. (Yes, I'm blogging about me working out. How original.) Unimpressive, save for the fact that I hardly ever run in this city. And (you guessed, right?) I'm going to tell you all about why.

• Right off the bat, the pollution, which is the biggest turn-off for my motivation. It's bad enough I have to breathe this crap, forget about doing aerobic workout. The only way around it is running in public parks.
• However (unless, thanks to the credit/housing/jobs crisis you're sleeping in a tent with the other bums, in which case you'd better spend your energies differently) you have to go there and then get back. The only practical way to do so, for me, is running, since I haven't got a car (and I wouldn't use it anyway. Think of driving back without showering: eurgh), riding my bike back when I'm all sweaty might kill me, just like other passengers of public transport would.
• So you meet traffic, the first real enemy (I understand so far it's just pointless whining). Running on dead hours helps (early mornings, lunchtime on weekends) but in this city ruled by cars you're never safe. This is especially true if you have to cross/run along heavily-trafficked, lightly-regulated avenues as I have.
  
• May the Flying Spaghetti Monster help you if, instead, your way to the park includes high streets (or other places densely packed with twats). Unless you're actually looking for a realistic mosh pit simulator. (I have another post planned on the joys of walking among the crowds, btw.)
• Worse than that are people in the park. Not the other runners, but those who are just having a stroll and wander mindlessly and clog the paths. I could put up with their sudden changes in direction, dogs, rampaging children and the like, but it's perfumes and smoke that really get on my nerves. (Among my talents I list the ability to get a splitting headache by inhaling a single whiff of perfume or smoke, when I'm exercising.)
• And talking about scents, what really kills me are the all-tempting gusts of food coming from the inevitable stalls. I realise eating some deep-fried crap is not the purpose of a run, but go tell it to my stomach.

It's not all bad, though. Even I can list a few benefits of running in a crowded place:

• My speed and posture dramatically improve when I'm in the vicinity of a pack of girls. Obviously.
• Every obstacle I list above can be used to spice up your run: when your way is blocked you can dash through the lawns, jump over small animals or children (in both cases, beware the lashes), benches, practise your mad dribbling skillz (only if you can pull that off, or if I'm around to laugh at the sight of you misjudging a side step and crashing into someone).

However, I do not really recommend the same behaviour in the traffic. Again, unless I'm there to watch.

Up against the laziness and the toil

So, it turns out that having a blog is harder work than I can put up with, apparently.

Never mind that I have objectively been busy, because I could easily have wedged in a half hour on a weekend to drop a few scattered thoughts. I just couldn't be arsed.

That is, until I remembered a blog post I read months ago, where the author (by now I've forgotten who that was, if I read it via twitter, whatever) argued that while blog numbers were sky-rocketing, thousands being created every day, less than *half* made it to more than a couple of posts before the "blogger" threw their hands in the air in frustration.

So, being the pretentious elitist ass I am, I can't bear the thought of being like the majority of lusers that lurk the intarwubs, and here I am bashing again on my laptop keyboard.

Or maybe I've recently had a big disappointment in my life, and I need to blow off some steam to avoid a complete nervous breakdown. I won't tell.

Yes, I know a shag usually serves the purpose better, thanks, mate. I'm trying that, too. It's called diversification, bitch, and I'm not taking finance lessons by the first prick that ends up on my blog.

So, blogging and sex. Let's see how long I last (pun intended, obviously).