I cannot remember if I ever meant to use this online word depository as an actual journal. I'm fairly certain that all it was ever going to be was a place to write asshatted bits of nonsense that a handful of people would read before deciding never to talk to me again.
Fare thee well sweet Nicole.
But I have the strange urge to write something serious, or at the very least, realistic and not an ode to sporadic jibberish. Should I? Should I open up here for all two of you to see? Well, why not?
Ladies and gentlemen... or actually just ladies, I'm quite certain that none of my male friends read this thing, besides Hamand who is delusional in his belief that this online journal has any merit besides displaying a genuine case of madness. Dammit now I have to start over... backspace? Pshhh, what do I look like, an editor?
Ladies, I stand in a metaphorical sense before you now, handsome and dashing, ready to declare that I have been thwarted by a terrible demon. This demon's name is "contentment."
I have become accustomed to the "shituation." My "RAWR" has turned to "meh." Because of my highly adaptive nature I am now unable to channel the anger and irrational inclinations that led to any former progression. I am stuck in a rut writing shit that I do not like. I read over the past couple of entries and it shakes me.
I've been writing garbage.
Perhaps the best way to deal with this terrible contentment would be to create discontent. Maybe I could borrow a gun and blow a hole in my foot. That would shake things up. I could probably even get a few puns out of that situation.
...but then I could bleed to death. No health insurance you see. And dying would be counter-productive to my doing what I need to do in this life.
Bah, I suppose I could sleep on it. Yeah, I'll rest a while and then wake up horrified once I realize that I used this online journal as an online journal. Oh well, it's probably been too long since I woke up horrified anyhow.
Here's to renewal and hellfire rain.
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