I've recently been informed that, apparently, it's absolutely stupid to have a blog without a theme. Well, my blog doesn't have a theme. I just write about whatever I happen to be thinking of at the moment. Sometimes a memory from my childhood, sometimes an angry rant about my Jerkface Roommate, sometimes an angry letter to my body because it's trying to kill me. There is no real connection to any of these thoughts.
So it must be reasoned that my blog is "stupid, " or at the very least that makes me stupid.
I've also been informed that people who read Tolstoy for fun are "pretentious bastards." I read Tolstoy. Not because I have to, but because I actually enjoy classical literature and I feel a supreme pleasure when I read things written in proper, flowing, lilting English, that was actually once Russian but was translated, I believe, because I'm really very sure Tolstoy was Russian. Apparently, reading anything "old school" in the literary world makes you pretentious, unless you're really old OR you HAVE to read it for class or something. And apparently I have to be lying to make myself seem more intelligent because "nobody actually likes Tolstoy."
So it must be reasoned that my love and appreciation for the tragic and wonderful "Anna Karenina" makes me a pretentious bastard.
Somebody also did me the kind favor of telling me that Shakespeare is a huge phony and he stole all of his plays and poems from Christopher Merlot and Edward something or other and some other random guy who died in obscurity because he never met Elizabeth. At the same time this person also told me that my favorite play by Shakespeare, the great and wonderful "Richard III" that I've read so many times, was actually the least significant, historically speaking, of all of Shakespeare's works, and that it is "highly overrated." I thought that was pretty funny since I've been saying pretty much the same thing about "Romeo and Juliette" since I was twelve years old.
So it must be reasoned that I have bad taste in plays and play writes alike.
And last but not least I've been told that people who write blogs are fat, lonely, pathetic people who have no friends and no one to talk to and feel that, by putting their drivel on the internet for other losers to read, they are making a difference or at the very least a real human connection, which is false. Well, I write a blog...
So it must be reasoned that I am fat, lonely, and pathetic and that my blog is drivel only read by losers and I'm not making any kind of a difference to anybody anywhere and I have no real human connection to anything.
I'm amazed by the sheer number of assholes and misinformed morons that live in my city. Great balls of fire, if I believed any of what these people said to me, I'd have to have a pretty low opinion of myself...and of the small handful of people who read my blog and write one themselves!
I'm forced to conclude after all of this information that:
Person number one writes a blog just hoping that it will be read so he can become famous. He has no true joy in just writing to write or to connect with people. He is all about the attention, not what he's saying.
Person number two tried to read something by Tolstoy voluntarily and found that he was too stupid and vernacularly challenged to understand anything that was happening, and therefore decided that nobody could actually enjoy reading Tolstoy unless they were trying to show off. So he's jealous of those of us who can understand and love his works, though he is a very verbose writer.
Person number three has no mind of her own and is merely repeating things she's heard people she believes are smarter than herself say. She doesn't have any idea who Christopher Merlot is, and I have a feeling that if I had told her that "A Midsummer Night's Dream" was my favorite play, she would have said the exact same thing. I seriously doubt that she's even heard of a play called "Richard III" before, and she probably can't even spell Shakespeare.
Person number four is just an asshole who has obviously tried to write a blog and found that nobody was interested in ever reading his thoughts, and in an angry fit of pique has rejected the very people that rejected him. He's bitter and angry and a very sad, strangle little man.
All in all, these people have not made an impact on me or my choices, but they've given me a good laugh.