Spanking New Post (nuttin' but love fo ya, MT)

OK, so this blogging thing is weird, right? I mean, I think it's weird. I love it, but I tend to love weird things, so the fact that I think blogging is weird and I love it must mean that it's definitely, without a doubt - weird. It's anonymous, but not really (I post under my first name, I disclose my city of residency, I post pictures of me [albeit from the neck down, and that's only because it's hard to photograph my clothes when I'm wearing them...], and I write about real-life events - so I don't give my full name and contact info, but it's not as if I'm lacking an identity here... and yet I sometimes write about pretty deep stuff usually stored down in the pits of me, stuff that I probably would have a hard time voicing in reality-land). It's public, but not really (yes, this is the internet... but you see, the thing is that there are about 3 people who check into this blog from time to time and they all know me and my stories, so the level of public display isn't exactly of gargantuan proportion). It's an expression of emotions and experiences that only a handful of people know I have and only a handful more actually read. Well, if you're me that's how it is anyway. Just something I was thinking about on the train tonight. Interesting. Well, to me anyway.

Random tangent: I was thinking on the train today (I do much pondering underground) that I am quite a fortunate person. I am. In practically every sense. I have a family I love, even when I hate them. I have friends who put up with me, even when I'm unbearable to anyone else. I live in Brooklyn and it's amazing here, even when it's crazyunbelievablydifficult. I live with two women who inspire me, even in times of desperate emptiness on all our parts. I have a job, even though I find it difficult to drag myself to every day. I am intelligent, despite brief moments of extreme stupidity. I'm attractive, although I am surely not attractive after a bout of crying, exercising, heavy drinking, or deep thought (required prereqs to live in this city). I can sew like a muthafucka, even though I have no formal training. I can read and write and occasionally string together a comprehensive thought, in spite of no college degree (not that I haven't taken enough classes to have undergrad done and be halfway through a grad program by now). Now here's the rub - I get sad. More and more lately. Sadness is normal, I realize that and I don't deny it's a neccessary component of a healthy life, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it. Which is a good thing, because I really don't like it. Really don't. Getting sad makes me sad. Well, more sad than the original sadness. A heightened state of sadness, if you will. My sadness level has actually reached red on the threat scale in the last 5 months. It was an innocuous yellow yesterday, and I think today it might actually be low enough for full-on green, but it's been red. So my strategy is to think about the green days and try to learn from the red ones. Today was a glorious green. It's Spring. Spring has sprung in New York city and it's glorious. I bought a painting today and that's the oh-so-appropriate title - Spring. I look for the greens in life. I think there are many more on the way. I feel good about that. Good enough to weather the reds when they stop by.

Insider info for the 3 people who will probably read this: you make my reds easier and my greens brighter. It probably sounds excessively corny, but that's a gift and I appreciate you. I do. More than my words can convey.