Reasons

I returned home from work. My roommate is seething, stewing shutting me and the rest of the world out. I hope he's creating something brilliant, something that will tear me from this unapproved path, unapproved by my parents, by God? A revolutionary idea he's stretched his skin over, skin so ready, collagen primed and racing, no stretch marks or blemishes, an idea honed ready to present to the world. He's erected his own kingdom, and I used to till his fields and honor my vassalage, but now, perhaps for eternity, he's keeping me out. Our egos collided. Our ideas clashed. How can we both express our genius? What should rule emotion or thought?
I have decided to start blogging, in the hopes to propel my writing output which has staggered as of late, for the sole reason of my indecision of whether to attempt another piece of fiction or write about my own life, even though I feel it’s so boring and uneventful. Yet I know there's something to say about it, something interesting, how am I observing my day? My girlfriend says," how can you ever hope to be a writer when all you do is sit at home." I admit that this is a valid point, the agonizing conundrum of the creative individual, from where should one derive their greatest pleasure, from creating art or living? I could sit around all day, scrape the bottom of my bowels and pull the cleverness and wit out stinking and fuming with laughs and long, drawn out sighs, but one day I'd realize that the stomach is empty, the inspiration has run dry, and I despondently pray to the great mind for the seed, knowing that the lives walking, skipping, and sprinting outside my window are full of anecdotes and fucked up situations, a bounty for any aspiring writer.
My girlfriend’s father is an inspiring man, a literature professor that despises his job, a hungry mind that is always on the prowl for enlightening experience, but as I was showering in preparation for a long shift a thought struck me strongly. He goes on epic sojourns to exotic locales. He walked across Spain, spent a summer in the Australian outback, and he wrote profusely about it, but I've never read anything he's written about his normal life, and that's the one I want to hear about. I want his lucid observations and reflections about being stuck in traffic, the obnoxious, pretentious hecklers in his classes, the heartache from his now lesbian ex-wife, the thoughts he has while riding his bike through town, I want to know what he's thinking about during his rigors, fulfilling the obligations one is forced to fulfill, lest you be incarcerated or infirmed. This thought motivated me to start my own blog, where I will be writing about my life.