I feel very self-conscious when I write in this web space of mine – that might be why I’ve been avoiding it, that or because I’ve been having quite a great time posting shorter blurbs on the amazingness that is Twitter.

The truth is, is that I can’t define what this space is most useful for. Is it a personal blog with random entries about all aspects of my life? Is it about my journey into journalism? Is it something I should use for my professional career? Is it a mix of all these things? See, these are questions I don’t have answers for and perhaps it worries me when it really shouldn’t. Maybe it’s ok to not have the answers. Maybe it’s ok to write about whatever I wish, without following any specific guidelines, I’m not sure. I guess you could say what it has been for me mostly, is a place of reflection, a place where I can write about whatever I wish and look back at later, wondering what I must have been thinking or feeling. It’s a bit like a memory capsule.

A lot of what prevents me from writing in here about topics I’d like and as frequently as I’d like, is the sheer amount of energy loss I have when I actually have the time to write. An eight hour day, coupled with a three hour daily commute really makes you want to collapse by the time you get home. I hate it. It sucks. I wish traffic would die. But alas, no such thing will happen. This is Los Angeles, and traffic is the price we pay for the year round Mediterranean weather.

Still, there are other reasons I’ve been avoiding this place, like the fact that I currently don’t have a camera and hate that I can’t include photos with my posts or take pictures of the things I bake.

I’ve had quite a busy week, full of editing, writing, categorizing, movie screenings, dreams, goals and social media. I hope tomorrow and this weekend are better days for the writepudding.

Do you see this little monster above? The one my boyfriend won for me while demonstrating his extraordinary basketball skills at the carnival section of California Adventure? I feel like this monster today, frazzled, all over the place and bug-eyed. I spent last night cleaning and taking care of Henry. It seems like the Diarrhea Night of Hell decided to revisit us. That was probably my fault because I didn’t wait long enough before I fed him again. I am hoping we don’t get a “Part 3″ tonight. I’ve had such a busy day. Between the fires burning all over Southern California and Los Angeles, and no sleep the entire night, plus a screening I had to see and a meeting I had to attend, I am just about ready to fall and die. I am so burned out, that I just want to sleep for an entire week to recover. Emails, messages, projects and work will have to wait. I am bidding you adieu, but only for today. Goodnight.

Yes, that’s really me. Don’t laugh.

Right now, I want to write about the presidential debate that commenced just a few hours ago. I want to write about how Joe the Plumber has replaced Joe Six Pack and how I was waiting for the sharpie that McCain was rocking back and forth in his hands to explode and how he did not even address the violent-laced insults McCain “supporters” have been hurling at Obama for the last few weeks. Most of all, I want to take those people who even dared to utter the words “Kill him,” “Terrorist,” “Traitor,” or “Off with his head,” dump them all on an island, and drown them with their own ignorance. The world and the gene pool does not need people like that.

That’s what I’d like to write about. I want to get a piece of the pie, like the commentators as CNN, the writers and bloggers at the NY Times and other media outlets have been doing.

Except, I’m tired. I’m really tired. I’m the kind of tired where you feel your eyeballs in their sockets. That’s never a good sign. I’m tired not only because I feel like I’m getting sick and thus have been taking Emergen-C (does this stuff even work?), advil and wearing big sweaters to counteract my chills that are multiplying, but because I stayed at work longer than usual today, a lot longer than usual, and I am suffering the consequences of staring at a computer screen for more than seven consecutive hours. Then when I come home, I subject myself to it again by getting on my own computer. I just with there were more than 24 hours in a day.

Goodnight, internet.