Wax Coffee

For the first time in a long while I feel somewhat...happy. Or at least relieved. I am finally moving towards a place where I want to be. There is an end in sight. But I find it self-indulgent to sit and prattle on about my feelings and the events, or lack thereof, in my personal life so I will cease and desist henceforth. I suppose the inherent purpose of the blog is to serve as an edifying body or at least an affirmation of existential phenomena to the reader by providing an ongoing narrative of experiences and evaluation of those experiences thereby rendering the owner of the blog a virtual writer. I am not so sure I can bite that hook. The modern blog is, by and large, a charivari full of pomp and idiocy. Any snaggletoothed pussyfoot that wants to talk about the utter torture of adolescent life and find catharsis in reciting some unintelligible gibber about how Jimmy is such an asshole and Ashley is such a bitch and their parents just do not understand simply has to sit down at the nearest computer, sign in to their respective account and flail away on the keyboard. And then there are the liberal, bohemian, Kerouac-Bukowski wannabes that think they are being artistic by typing up some esoteric free-form poem about existential philosophy and/or the situation in (insert war-torn, poverty stricken, or sub-developed area here). Why? Why does this mind-ravaging juggernaut keep crushing potentially eloquent minds under its terrible wheel? I do not know. And I am not positing that one should not write freely about what they are thinking or feeling but just do not do it where the whole damned world can see it. I do not care about Jimmy. I do not care about your parents preconceptions. I do not care about your knowledge of obscure literary references or how your heart bleeds for the underprivileged and impoverished while you sit at Starbucks with your vinti latte ordering trendy, overpriced sneakers online. What I do care about is substance. It is not that I do not want anyone to write. I just do not want anyone to write about inane bullshit. And I certainly do not want to read about it. This modern medium allows, even encourages thoughtless emotional ranting in place of clear, concise evaluation. It is reactive. Not proactive. React to your feelings or your circumstances or what you saw on television do not analyze or ask questions. Simply say something. Anything. It is not a cause but rather a facet of popular society stemming from the continual disconnect between modern humans. Millions of people pseudo-communicating with each other via texts and blogs and forums and so on. But I digress. Now I know what you are thinking: I am a hypocrite, a phony. Here I am going on about the flaws of modern society and the bastardization of the English language through digital mediums while writing in my very own blog. The unholy leviathan itself romping past. As previously stated I am not discouraging anyone from voicing their thoughts; just asking that they consider their validity and importance before blabbing them to the rest of the known world. Write about that bastard, Jimmy. Write about your square parents. Write about your tattered soul mourning over the shortage of organic soy milk at the coffee shop. Just do it in your diary. Then when you have something worth writing you can type it up in your handy-dandy blog. You can write like a stark raving mad bastard pumped up on bitterness and cynicism. You can write like one whose hypocrisy knows no bounds. You can write like me.