The thing about drinking to excess to quell what ails you: you wake up the next morning with the same set of afflictions and a hangover.
My proclivity for writing blog posts that start like this one, my own subjective rendering of a particular (and sometimes-wine-soaked) context at a particular time of my life—with the rough theme being what it’s like for a lone star to finally find her way to the Lone Star State and try to configure some sort of hardscrabble, self-made constellation to illuminate the darkness of these wide open skies—has me frequently pondering the question of self-indulgence. Also, the subject was raised here recently, thus turning my thoughts to the topic yet again. Is writing a blog—particularly a personal blog, as opposed to say, a cooking blog with recipes, which could be said to contain information of use and interest to someone other than its author-subject—self-indulgent?
Well, yes—supremely. That’s not really a question, is it? But then, couldn’t anything that isn’t strictly necessary be said to fall under the umbrella of self-indulgence? Eating an ice cream cone, watching reality T.V., writing a blog post—what’s the difference? The former two are not—typically—conducted with an audience in mind, true, but then, isn’t anyone who leaves the house on a regular basis constantly engaged in a series of performances and personae, whether courtesy of the social contract or the need to sublimate, sublimate at the workplace?
And aren’t certain literary figures, lionized in certain circles, actually bloggers ahead of their time? Charles Bukowski, Henry Miller, and yes, Hunter S. Thompson too—all cannibalized their lives for material, made self-mythologizing a fine art and science, and spewed it out into the world. While you can argue degrees of relative talent, can blogging in the end be said to be any more self-indulgent than any other form of creative writing, personal narrative, or for that matter, other forms of self-expression (painting, composing, et cetera)?
As someone who perpetually and uneasily straddles the divide between compulsive self-disclosure (and the Yearning for the Ideal Audience Member for same) and the deep soul-craving for total anonymity, I’m not sure what to make of it all.
And thus ends Deep Thoughts Hour.
In other news, I discovered (or rather, received and followed through on a tip about) the best H.E.B. ever today: the one in the shopping center with the McDonald’s on Braker Lane. While it’s no Central Market, it’s as close as I can imagine any H.E.B. ever coming. They even had (a limited selection of) the Central Market muffins with which I am obsessed; I picked up a box of the ricotta-blueberry variety. Also spotted:
* Cheese in the shape of Texas!
* Wine, wine, wine!
* A woman who, absorbed in her cell phone conversation, knocked over three large bags of potatoes, briefly removed her head from her derriere to survey her handiwork, and decided that picking them up was someone else’s problem
Which, dear readers, is this H.E.B.’s fatal flaw: people shop there. Oh well, roses and thorns, and all of that. If I can bring myself to brave Research Boulevard on a regular basis (without flipping anybody off, but come on, when you swerve the sports car that is so clearly and tragically an ineffectual attempt to overcompensate for your tiny member INTO AN EXIT LANE so that you can CROSS THE DIVIDE WHERE IT FORKS OFF TO PASS SOMEONE, you have that and a whole lot worse coming to you, Jack, seriously where is that meteor?), then I think I’ve finally found my H.E.B.
And! Most important of all:
These smart kicks (to which my shoddy photography do not do justice) are going to make me the coolest kid in school. Look, Ma! Thirty-two years old and in the Imperial Guard!
A proud moment, to be sure.
A fine addition to any single gal's closet—what would Carrie Bradshaw say?
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