05 October 2002 8:14 a.m.
I Have Too Much Time on My Hands

Agh. It's always the same -- I feel like I should write something deep and profound every time I start a new writing thingy. It's silly. I shouldn't expect myself to spout profundity every time I express myself, but I never learn. Maybe that's why Buddhists believe that a person goes through several reincarnations before he reaches nirvana.

Ah well, with a blog, I won't be expected to write profound thingy things all the time, because random babblings are hardly ever coherent. Unless you're extremely high or extremely low, in which case things just seem to make sense on a deep, mystical and transcendental level that can never be achieved with full lucidity. Or you could always be pumped with too much coffee, as dear Tea Rose is sometimes.

Damn, I don't understand what I just wrote. That makes me a baka!

Damnitall, everyone else is writing so well and I feel so left behind and sorry for myself and now I feel whiny and I just want to slip into a maudlin sort of zone where I can ramble on and on as though I'm drunk, but in reality I'm just carping on and on and on and on and on.

And then there's the whole issue of layout. Why does everyone have such gorgeous blogs?! It makes me want to feel sorry for myself again. I suppose I have to actually read the whole damn html web site thingy thing.

I might as well get to it; I'm on holiday as it is anyway.

Gee.. mebbe I should go to bed. I'm supposed to be up bright and early tomorrow. BUT WHY SHOULD I BE UP BRIGHT AND EARLY TOMORROW, I'M ON HOLIDAY FOR FUCKS' SAKE.

Speaking of fucks, where can I get some, ahahaha. This is sick. I should never write in the middle of the night. The whole 'different level of consciousness' thing is quite hard to believe in the morning, except you can't deny it because the proof is staring you in the puffy-eyed face from its cozy nest on the PC screen and you can't bloody well kick it because then there'll be hell to answer to your dad and then some. Especially when your brothers come home and find out that they can't download the Best Wrestling Comedy of WWF, except that it's called WWE now because the real WWF made a fuss about being affiliated with something that involved so much blood and gore.

Where am I getting all this!? It's like my train of thought has been continuously jumping tracks and it's actually followed that track until I do something like start a new sentence. Like now. Stop. Enough. Go. To. Bed. Already.

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