I was just lying in bed thinking about how I don't write enough anymore, and how I really should.

I'm not usually accustomed to making New year's Resolutions, due mostly to my disdain for the public fad, but if I did that would have been one of them, so here you go.

After reading a comic in a McSweeney's book about a woman looking for her aborted fetus in the stars, I went outside to smoke the last in a pack of Belmonts I bought on Tuesday and to look at space, but it's overcast and unseasonably warm and I didn't see much of it. I started to think about my program bio for the summer show, of all things, and that brought me back up here to get everything out of my head and into some kind of permanency.

I've been thinking a lot about (what) PB (said) a few weeks ago, about how everything I write in a Facebook note will be read, that people actually do troll their friends' pages in an effort to make it through the day while simultaneously making an effort to connect with people they think they know and love.

I'm not going to link to this because my online journal has gotten me into realine trouble in the past, and I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I really need some kind of outlet and I'm sick of writing fiction.

I've just gotten this idea of writing real life paper and ink letters to Mom, in an effort to get to know the real her in a way I've only begun to do in the last few years. I don't want her advice, I just want to think of her as a real person; think of it as the first step in my attempts to broaden my understanding of Those Who Aren't Me.

I told Alex Rayment today that I would prefer to just listen to myself in conversation all day, but frequently I find myself the least interesting person in the room, and that's what False Resolution #2 is all about. I've decided that I've no excuse anymore to not do what I want to do except for my own fears, and really what are those anyhow?

I worry that people won't like me, that they'll tell their friends to steer clear of me, and I know that this has happened but why do I care about that? I need to become more clear of myself, and be happier with what I do, and part of that is to not make horrible, pig-headed decisions. I'm getting much better about not hurting people, but only with strangers. I'm much more likely to hurt the people I love than the people who I've not had a chance to love, and that's just not right.

Stop talking, start doing.

And don't worry about her; she's more like you than you want to admit.