Clearly a day and a half spent in bed makes one introspective. Too introspective one might say. Yesterday I found a scrap of paper listing the title of a book. It had been given to me by a friend of a friend at a rather loud dinner party I attended recently. Okay, so most of the 'loud' was a result of myself and a dear lady friend having turned up after spending a day at the races drinking champagne. And I have no doubt that we were our usual irreverent selves, much to the potential pain (but hopefully amusement) of the other, much more sober guests. 

Anyways, while I have yet to get a hold of the book, I did manage to download the first thirty pages (a strange thing to be able to do, don't you think?). I am absolutely smitten by the general concept of the book – which I must've been when I was told about it, seeing as I forced some poor young man to scribble the title down on a brown piece of paper that had previously been wrapped around a bottle of wine. I have already found the following passage – page 3, chapter 1 – quite salient. 

THE SADDEST THING about life is you don’t remember half of it. You don’t even remember half of half of it. Not even a tiny percentage, if you want to know the truth. I have this friend Bob who writes down everything he remembers. If he remembers dropping an ice cream cone on his lap when he was seven, he’ll write it down. The last time I talked to Bob, he had written more than five hundred pages of memories. He’s the only guy I know who remembers his life. He said he captures memories, because if he forgets them, it’s as though they didn’t happen; it’s as though he hadn’t lived the parts he doesn’t remember. ***

People often ask me how or why I write about my life. I have been accused of self-indulgence (tick), mediocrity (tick), and driving men away (I assume tick, because there never seem to be too many around). I clearly have some kind of internal drive to do it. I've been doing it for what, eight or nine years now.

Tonight I dug up some very formative blog posts that were mostly about electrophoresis. Then there were some other ones that were mostly about being drunk. While I was drunk. And until I read about these events, feelings and experiences, I had completely forgotten about them. They'd slipped my mind entirely. 

So while there might not be a significant audience for the recordings of a self-indulgent, mediocre professional man scarer, I have absolutely no regrets in what is recorded. Cringey, hide-my-face-in-shame moments, yes. Regrets? Nope. None. There is something vaguely comforting about knowing that my life's foibles are stored forever on some anonymous server system somewhere in the world. Not quite as tangible as a set of journals – but real enough.

As for the subject matter, well, there isn't much of a formula to it. Just writing about what seems to be happening for me at any given time. In my late teens and early 20s, it was all about study, drinking and what parties I went to. In my later 20s, it's all about drinking and man hunting. Gawd help me (and you, Internets) if I ever get into a relationship. Goodness knows what kind of delights you will be hearing about then. Or if I get married! *gulp* Just think of all the 'wry insight' I shall unleash upon the 'World of Wedding'. And then comes the mommy blogging. Yikes!! 

Fortunately for now I continue to remain firmly outside of that world and maintain my general grumbliness at it for the amusement of myself and others. And I must, must, must get a copy of that book. Perhaps that can be my prize for a man free June? Actually. No. I have something much less intellectual in mind for that. Perhaps it can just be my prize for being me?

*** The book, for those who may be interested is "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life" by Donald Miller