M Y N A M E I S .
My handwriting is going to shit. It was never that great to begin with -- I'm self-taught at cursive and typing, which is why my approach to both is so individual and also sucky -- but lately I've been putting pen to paper the way Lindsay Lohan puts car to Hollywood. I'm swerving all over the fucking place, and not in those ways that are pleasing to the eye. To appropriate a popular advertising phrase, real handwriting has curves.
It's my own fault. I haven't written in my pen-and-ink journal with any regularity for several years. Oh, sometimes I get angry at myself ("Handwriting is a dying art form and you're not treating it very well at all"), and I bust out a journal entry, like I did from 1993 to 2004; I pop the rubber band off the Moleskine, uncap the fountain pen like I'm docking a Space Shuttle, and bang out three pages of "I need to do this more often." But it's a false bit of industry, and it's not going to be enough to save my handwriting. In ten years' time, I'll be signing my name with something that looks like the old unpronounceable Prince symbol.
I freely admit that this probably isn't the best way to lament the slow death of my handwriting. I should be putting this shit down in the journal, fighting this degradation head-on. But I'm lazy, y'know. And I wouldn't be able to read my own writing anyway, so my take-away from this episode would be largely nominal. Hello, my handwriting sucks.