How I Equate Every Dead Hobby to Puddle Play
Blogging/journaling/therapeutic self-vomiting(whatever you want to call it) has been like every fledgling hobby of mine. Excited, enamored in the beginning, I jump in with both feet. Both feet's soaked. I am situated ankle-deep in murky puddle water. I stand there for a little while. Just a little while. And then I begin to feel uncomfortable, awkward even. Like the wetness of the puddle is beginning to feel too wet. Ugh, and I hate prune-y toes. I pull out one of my feet and place it on dry ground. The other lingers to feel out the wetness a little longer, to see if it can acclimate and get comfortable, maybe gather enough charisma to coax the departed foot back in.
NOPE. Out comes the second foot. Thus ends the hobby. The spark extinguished, the smoke barely detectable as though it was never there.