I have this desire, more than an inkling but less than a resolution, to write in this damn thing more often. Like maybe even every day.

Problem is, on some days nothing really happens. Like today. I had a boring all-day meeting at work. I came home. I took a nap. I got up and watched Big Brother.

It's on days like this that I would like to be able to reach into my brain and pull out a topic. Even if it's not timely, or relevant. I have such topics, waiting in the wings so to speak, I really do. But I fear that they're all stupid.

So, on days like today, I might write an entry like this, and try to be satisfied that I at least wrote something.

Every now and then, it's just memories. Nothing present current pounding buzzing eating eroding exploding. Just the past. The fucked-up past.

Who was I? Who was she? Who were we? What were we? Are we dead now? Were we ever alive? Or were we never anything more than figments?

I always have to remind myself, that I have this outlet for my thoughts and feelings, and for the words that do their best to represent. It's been a month since I've written here, and much longer since I've written anything relevant decent memorable therapeutic.

I want to write a novel. An autobiography of sorts. I have it in me. I have the story, or at least the beginning and the middle and a thousand endings. I have the title, even though RockGirl disapproves of the title I've chosen.

I think it's brilliant, so I'm keeping it.