I feel like I’ve hit the epitome of genericism. I’ve failed to be distinct in anything I write, and have started writing off personal disillusionment or disgust as a by-product of one-sidedness.
Have I peaked? Have I reached a milestone of dad-ity, where everything I say is vague, and my non-existent kids automatically tune me out? “Oh, it’s dad droning on again about existentialism and his personal political misgivings. He’ll stop talking when his life-giving farts run out.”
Look, okay, fine. The more specific I get, the harder it is to maintain a public blog that anyone can read. I could discuss people I know and how I may or may not feel about them, but when did gossip ever help anyone? I could catalog my unique foody experiences around L.A.’s most secret alleys and culverts, but none of that has or will ever happen(ed). And no, I refuse to sit down and curate a self-help manual. A daily blog where I don’t try to work out my most personal struggles and mental acrobatics in a public arena is hardly worth the effort, no?
Sit down and shut up. Apparently I have things to say.
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