What I should write:
Apparently, due to cost effectiveness calculations made by management at some point in the past, our air conditioning system at work doesn't like working in temperatures above 27C. Funnily enough, neither do most of my colleagues. But apparently, unlike the bargain basement AC, we don't get the choice. At least the heat's something like tolerable now.

What I want to write:
What's the point of having a blog if you can't be open? Today I found myself regretting some of the things that I've written in the past: maybe an occasional revelation that took on new relevance once the readership escaped my control, the odd turn of phrase crafted for an audience other than that which eventually read it. Should I now be censoring myself?

Why?

This is catharsis. But is it appropriate?

My mother is concerned that I may gain a reputation among my colleagues for being too flaky if I continue to lay bare my soul on this page. But I don't have a problem holding things together at work, though. There is equilibrium. Calm. Things make sense.

I wish the rest of the world was the same.

Why have I let so many of my old friends slip away, almost having willed some of them to? They all have children. Am I trying to punish someone? If so, who?

And how is it that I can be genuinely enthusing about the merits of Pirates of the Caribbean while simultaneously attempting to persuade myself that walking in front of a bus would not be a good idea? Unhealthy. Stupid. Unlikely to happen. I don't have to argue too hard, but the idea is a little intriguing. And it's not like I even feel deeply unhappy. I think I'm mostly fine. Cheerful without trying. Really okay.

But ultimately, what really makes that bus a bad idea? Things like this and this and this and this and this and this, not forgetting this, or this and this, or, dammit, even this.

And especially this.

But damn, I need to find myself.

It just won't be in an air conditioning vent. Or, for that matter, under the number 36.