I used to be a cleaning lady for this man in Champaign, he was SUPER interesting. He led this awesome life (a UCLA boxer, a rock climber, a best selling author, an inventor, a pilot, an artist), but his wife divorced him and his two sons had grown up and moved away. So he was VERY lonely. Whenever I came over to clean, I didn't get much done because he wanted to talk to me, and show me his art or his inventions.
After Thanksgiving my junior year of college, he never called me to clean his house again. And the last time I was over there he was really down. He was trying to write a new book, but he had writer's block. I hadn't thought about him in a really long time, but lately I was telling someone I work with about him. I CANNOT remember his name. But I DO remember that I wrote a long entry or two about him in my Livejournal.
I'm trying to find the entry, but that means I have to troll through a lot of my Fall 2005 entries. And there are a LOT of them. I DO NOT like re-reading my journal/blog entries. They make me insanely uncomfortable. I think they sound weird, and self-indulgent. I get squeamish reading them.
I finally found one of the entries and another one titled Galen.
Ugh. Reading through my old stuff made me feel weird. Nauseous? Irritated? Vapid? Whatever, this new blog is still pretty vapid.