This is one of those times when I have nothing to say, so I'll just sit here and start typing, and hopefully I'll think of an actual topic before the Sun swells into a giant red ball and sears the Earth to a crisp.

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Not working yet.

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Well, shit.

This was a bad idea. I want to write something good to help counteract some of the crap I've written lately. But I'm having the same problem I've had for weeks now - A complete lack of, I don't know, whatever it is that I seem to need to be able to write anything worthwhile.

Passion? Sorrow? Longing? All bottled up. They can't hurt me, but neither can I use them for inspiration.

I read other journals and I see that it is possible to write entertaining entries about mundane everyday events, but I've never been able to do it. It is possible to write creative and engaging fiction, but I've never been able to do that either.

All I've got, all I've ever had, was this intermittent ability to write about pain and loss and longing and sorrow. Those things used to be what drove me to write. But that was okay, because they also backed up the words that I wrote. Now, now the words look hollow on my screen because they are hollow. Hollow words written by a hollow man.

I'm not complaining, really. Being hollow is in many ways preferable to being filled with the searing hot ashes of a thousand broken dreams.

See what I mean? Drivel. Pristine, unblemished drivel. There was only one dream.

I wonder if I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Can you get that from the stress of realizing that you're a complete moron and that everything you've done for almost two years has been the wrong thing?

I need a vacation. In one month I'll be in Las Vegas having one. But before that I've got to get through this fuckwad of a month.