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A few days ago, someone on Facebook linked to the clown story, which still cracks me up every time I think about it.

In addition to the nostalgia I felt of living in the bay area with that particular group of people ten years ago, I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the type of posting that I used to do here. Stories about my life and those of the people around me. Clearly, I'm not as prolific as I used to be, and I'm beginning to come to terms with that. But I really enjoyed reading that old post and the sense that those who also read it enjoyed it. I don't get that sense as much anymore from reading my more recent writing.

On the other hand, someone who doesn't particularly care for dogs told me he got caught up in Crianza's saga due almost entirely to the strength of my writing.

I'm not quite sure what happened. I suspect that the decline in quantity has some effect on quality. For every funny or well told story in this journal, there were dozens of crap throwaway posts that aren't all that memorable to anyone but me.

At any rate, I don't really think that there's much I can do to get back in the swing of things except write more.

What to write about--who the hell knows. I suspect that if I make myself tell stories, they'll start to flow. I feel a little bad for Graham and Celosa, though, since most of my stories these days are also their stories.

Oh, well, it's not like they didn't know what they were getting themselves into...