May 15, 2002

I'm reading too many blogs with astute observations, witty quips, etc. Wondering what to write about my fairly boring life. Then realizing it isn't boring when I re-read it later - it's an interesting journal of my life - not designed to be particularly entertaining. The fact that I'm here at all. How I spend my days. I'm content enough with the way things are, and working to improve the things that don't satisfy me.

I am really not out to write the next great literary masterpiece. Just bits and pieces of my existence, something to amuse my descendants. I am fascinated enough with the writings I find from my ancestors - their everyday lives and the times in which they lived. Why can't I see the same in my scribbles?

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