Inauspicious

My wedding ring smells terrible. I took it off moments ago to apply lotion to my unbelievably dry hands, held it to my nose, and took a whiff. Disgusting. Alarmed, I snorted around the rest of my hand, which seems to smell fine.
I am not a dirty person (well... no, actually, I'm really not). I scrub myself regularly, apply a regimen of expensive beauty products morning and night, wash my hands after using the loo, etc. And I clean my rings with reasonable frequency. So what the fuck? Gross.
I have a tendency to read into things. As though my life was a mediocre novel bursting with all-too-obvious symbolism. Sympathizing with my hatred of diamonds and all they stand for, my husband got me a sapphire eternity band as my wedding ring. Lovely, tiny, square-cut sapphires- which have, of course, dozens of little nooks and crannies where nastiness may gather. I love the ring, but keeping it clean is something of a chore.
Oh god. This post smacks of the silliness and pseudo-depth I criticize so heartily in others. (This Fish (doesn't really trip off the tongue, does it? The idea is cute, but "this fish?" it's everything that's wrong with the English language. Anyway...), Stephanie Klein, countless others, I'm sure).
But then, what is a blog, if not a chance to make your life into a mediocre novel? You write it, random passers-by read it. Millions of people, procrastinating at work. For 40 minutes, I'm a cog in a machine. Then, for the next 15, I am the center of attention of unknown masses. I'm writing in my blog. If I make it funny, if I imbue stories of my life with cheap symbols, people may read it, like it. People will envy me.
So there you have it, my not-so-incisive musings on blogging.
I can see Joliet from my office window. I think it's snowing there.