Blogging: This One VS Wordpress

Perhaps because I've used "blogspot" (or "blogger dot com" or whatever the flavor du jour name is) for quite a while now but I find it easy to use.  I started noticing about a year ago that a lot of people use Wordpress. A lot of people whose blogs get read and commented on use WP as opposed to this one.

Yes, I said their name.  Wordpress. I've used it in my blog. Oh, bad me.  I'm damned for all eternity to have said their name on the Internet.  I'm going to use it in vain too.

Why do people blog?  It's basically journaling on the Net as opposed to paper.  There are a zillion different kinds of blogs and blogging out there.  Family, memories, parenting, animal, writing, creativity, cooking, political, social etc. etc. etc.  You get the idea. Facebook has given me a wealth of topics to blog about usually because someone got my goat or sparked a memory.

I think essentially why we blog or journal is the universal need to be heard. To be "seen." To feel creative.   We blog to capture our moment of cleverness, clarity or even genius. In a sense, we blog to immortalize ourselves.  We don't want to be forgotten.  As long as the Web lasts, we will last.  Our thoughts, ideas, recipes, photos etc. are there as though part of our essence is carved in stone with 0s and 1s. Our grandchildren or generations beyond can "know" us.

Digression.  The bane of blogging, journaling and often conversation.  Back to Wordpress.

I think Wordpress sucks.  I think it's a clunky, nasty, decidedly UN-friendly program. And I think at this point in my Technological Life, I'd like to think I'm relatively savvy at negotiating sites.  However, if you want to be heard (without a zillion ads cloggin' yo' bloggin') WP is the way most people go. A dear friend of mine (from the dog world) was lamenting WP just the other day and I said, "Why do you use that p.o.s. program?"

I confess, I do have a WP account but I almost always post a link to whatever my latest and greatest is to this one instead of trying to work around that scut-bucket loser of a site.

Feeling Stupid & Sh***y. Literally.

From the "Stupid, Nobody Really Gives a Snot-Blowing Royal Rip But n A Weird Way You Feel Better Posting It On Your Wall" Inane FB Post Category:

Don't you hate it when you have a big event approaching or a lot to do you and you don't feel well. And then you feel like an idiot because you've completely stressed yourself out and now you feel crappy AND stupid???  Arrgggh!

Actually what's stressing me out the most is that it is highly likely that it's going to be hot AND humid where we're going (WDW) and I'm so scared that I'll be too hot to do any of the myriad cool, fun things there are to do!  I'm freaking out because about 25 years I got heat stroke at an air show and it was simply awful.

And then to add to my stupidity I keep reading stuff on "How to stay cool" on the internet and how hot and miserable it can be at WDW....stupid, stupid, stupid......
Trolling the internet like some hypochondriac.

Who wants to spend a zillion dollars on a vacation and be stuck in your hotel or in the shade by the pool?  Heck, I can do that here.

How stupid can I be???  Pretty damn stupid apparently.

Hating myself right about now because it's all my own damn fault. Where the mind is, so goes your guts. I wish I'd quit pooping myself. It's getting old as hell.

Fiction From A Picture: Ships Of The Desert

Ships Of The Desert
©Mia Knerly-Hess, All Rights Reserved

Marvin had the map, old and faded, from his grandfather's journals. He knew the coordinates of the Betsy Ann and the Maude.  Determined to visit the place that so haunted his beloved grandfather, of lives and cargo lost, he trekked across the vast, featureless plains.

"How can this be?" he thought.  "There's no water here.  Could Dushka have been wrong all those years ago?"

Marvin had checked and re-checked with his GPS and mapped at night by starlight and compass, the winds yowling around him on the cold, lonely plains. For years, he'd been honing his mapping skills for just this journey. From Cub Scout to Star Scout, summers spent at an Outward Bound school, classes and courses, survival camps and those four years in the Corps, just for this moment.

"I'm too old for this," he sighed time and time again.  Fifty, graying, slightly stooped shoulders from that accident years ago and now marching across the vast nothingness with skies so big they overwhelmed him at times.  The winds, howling and crying, often tearing his mind apart until unbidden streams of emotion fell down his face. Or quiet so still he heard his own heart and the land's heart beating throughout his body and being.

Finally in the distance, a shadowed hump arose out of the flattened scrub grass of the Kazakhstan steppe.

"I'm seeing things again," he chided himself as he raised his binoculars to his blue eyes. No, it was a shape, man-made, jutting blackened above the great plain.  The dull sky didn't give him any details but his feet surged him forward with renewed energy. Details began to emerge; the bow, the wheelhouse.

"This HAS to be it! Dushka was right, they're still here!"  He had found his grandfather's ships just as the sun broke through the clouds, throwing every detail into crystalline focus.

He just wasn't prepared for the camels.

Photographer Not Known

Story by Mia Knerly-Hess
Copyright ©2013
All rights reserved