No point.

I feel like I should post something on here just to keep the blog alive and well, though I don't have much to say. Again.

Except maybe that I'm trying to digitally color a drawing I did and I get the feeling it's going to fail miserably... ah, well. Everyone has to start somewhere, and that "somewhere" is the Land of Failure and Suckishness.

Thankfully, people improve. (Erm, hopefully.) Even I, the worst artist ever (a combination of laziness, busyness, and general lack of talent is never good), have actually IMPROVED over time. Amazing, I know, but it's true. I look at stuff I uploaded to deviantART almost a year ago and cringe at the horror. I'm tempted to take it down and pretend it never happened, but I think it serves as a nice testament to some semblance of artistic improvement. Or something.

***

Sometimes this blog feels like one giant, raging, bubbling cesspool of narcissism. Who cares about what I think? Who cares about what I write? Who cares about the random, mundane, finer points of my life?

Maybe it's because I want to better myself as a writer, improve my (negligible) skill with words, et cetera. But what am I talking about? Myself. Nothing of global importance or national importance or anyone-that-isn't-me importance. I just keep rambling and rambling and expect people to read this and actually care.

How many pronouns have I used that are "I," "me," "my," or "mine"? Too many.

I expect someday I'll catch sight of my reflection in a nice, clear pool in the forest, and I'll fall madly in love with myself and eventually be turned into a flower by sympathetic higher forces.