The Post-Graduate Conundrum: Dreamer or Delinquent?

You know... I've always resisted getting a blog for the SOLE reason that by writing my thoughts online I would be essentially pouring my soul into a lifeless computer instead of a personalized traditional journal. I've always noted the differences. The difference between typing my thoughts and writing them on paper. The difference between blogging and journal scripture. My immediate thought: you write blogs for the world to see and write journals for "just you." But... the question I face now is, what is truly worth keeping from the world? And more intriguingly, why, if something is worthless, would I want to share it with other people anyway? Our lives cannot be so infuriatingly boring that we accept the unimportant, commonplace banter that far too many people rely on for brief entertainment value. We're individuals dammit! And that language is moribund.

Jack: "Hey. How are you?"
Jill: "I'm good, how are you?" (What's his name again?)
Jack: "Good. Good to see ya!"

They used less than 10 words to say what they didn't mean...Tisk. Tisk. But...I'm a culprit too. So, I guess that's precisely why blogging is so damn useful after all. Writing my thoughts by hand, in colorful ink, in a journal, when I really need to let out my worst and most pitiful character flaws, has always served as a form of expression and release. But. It never gave me the courage to tell other people exactly who I was and what I felt... even when I really needed to. I knew I could come back and feel better by pouring myself like ink into the vast, never-ending pages of my journals. Not this time.
Here I am world! A post-graduate 22-year old with (excuse the language) no shittin-clue where I'm headed in a no-hope recession for a undergrad grad, and no fucking worry in the world that I can't bag a dead-end office job with the threat of thousand dollar loans looming over my head. Nope!

There's another way to live, and I'm going to start living it today. Am I an idealist? Hell yes. Call me anything but the sad, praised reality of a "realist."