This is my site. It's not yours. If it was yours, I probably wouldn't be writing in it. Or at least not as much. And you'd probably be the protagonist, not me.
This site contains no nudity. You should be grateful for that, after seeing how many home movies I have here. This site does, however, contain a fair amount of profanity, especially the blog entries. I could go back and change everything to give the site a more family-friendly rating but I don't fucking want to.
So, if you're under 18 years old, then you should leave this site, and get off my lawn. If you're an adult, yet some kind of pansy who's offended by adult language in a personal blog, it would probably be a good idea for you to leave also.
If you're too horrified to look away, however, I invite you to stick around and see what my little corner of the Internet has to offer.here.
ProbablyI think I'll procrastinate later this week. Or maybe next week. It's hard to tell; I'm pretty busy. Eventually I'll get around to procrastinating, though.CleavageOne button, done or undone. Either way speaks volumes.FinallyPeople keep griping about the heat, Meanwhile, I have finally stopped shivering.DifferenceThe difference between a beer connoisseur, or however you spell it, and a beer snob is this: A beer snob will make fun of you for drinking swill, even if you claim to like it. I am a beer snob.UgCame home from work to find no power in my neighborhood. So I've had to park my car in my driveway instead of my garage. Now I know how the cavemen felt.
People ask, "So what happened?"
I was wrong. I was mislead. I was fooled. Foolish.
And so now, I wait to die.
Most people do the same thing. I'm just a little more aware of it than most.
I've been waiting for so long, that I don't know how to stop waiting. It's become habit. A part of me. It defines me.
The thing is, I'm not the same person that I used to be. In some ways I'm better, but in most ways, I think, I'm worse than before.
Either way, I don't want to ever be that person again. Never ever ever again.
I once wrote that hope exists to disappoint. Well, my hope disappointed a long time ago, and so I killed it, and I'm glad that it's gone.
Wait, that's not quite true. I didn't kill it. One person clonked it over the head and held it down so another person could stomp it to death. I just watched in horror. Frozen and disbelieving.
And then they both took a shit on the corpse.
There's this noise, a roar, a piercing shriek, a riotous cacophony. It permeates everything that I am and was and will ever be. It's deafening, and my ears recoil from the force of the sound. My mind rejects it, but it's like rejecting my beating heart. And my heart is fueled by it.
Its oscillations vibrate my bones, my joints, my tendons. I feel this din as surely as I feel my own body heat. It's just there, always and forever.
Until I try, really try, to hear it.
I shut out all distractions, I isolate myself, I close my eyes, I listen.
Every fiber of my being suddenly craves desires yearns for that which should be there must be there could be there would be there if only...
I want to write. I really do. I want to write and much as I want to breathe. More, maybe.
Just not about this. Just not about her.
Not much of an entry here, but an entry nevertheless.
I had a goal this past week. I might have failed. I certainly didn't accomplish as much as I'd wanted. I got to about 50% of my goal. That was on Friday.
What do you do, when it's been so long that it's nothing more than a distant memory? Not even that, really. More like a fiction.
Once upon a time, I was a writer of sorts.
Now it's been months. So much has happened. Even more has not happened. And here I sit, in this chair. And here my words sit, inside my head. Struggling to make their way down my arms and out my fingers.
A recap of the last several months? I don't think so. Not yet, not all at once. Maybe tidbits every now and then. Maybe never.
I got my last check from the publisher today. That's twelve stories I've written but never read. A paltry sum I've received, but still more than a lot of writers of sorts manage. I think I was just in the right place, and the right frame of mind, at the right time.
My goal now, were I to be so bold as to state a goal, would be to write in this journal more often. Once per day should be doable, but once per week is probably more likely for now. I'm starting over, you see. Or trying to start over.
This was my outlet for a long time. Then, for even longer, it was my voice, as I screamed of my pain. Now, now I'm not sure what it's supposed to be. I just know that I miss it. I miss this, this sound of fingers tap-tap-tapping on my keyboard as my mind empties onto my screen.
Maybe that's all this will be now. A sedative for my mind and my heart. A calming for my soul.
It's impossible not to wonder, at this late hour on this late date, though wondering is bad stupid pointless.
What will happen to me in the next few days? What will happen to me in the next few hours? What what what what?
Context changes once again.
Will the passion that's been sucked from me for so long be suddenly free to linger, to motivate, to perhaps even inspire? Might I write again of the thoughts feelings impulses obsessions compulsions that continue to consume me?
Everyone on Earth, were you to poll them, would say that this is a good thing, this change. Everyone on Earth would be wrong, though. This is the worst thing.