No Internet means no writing. And, for the past six weeks or so, I've been without. Grr.

I will sleep tomorrow. I will then exit my comfy, comfy bed to obtain tasty beverages and return to drink them, lie upon my bed, and read a book.

As hopelessly lazy and/or boring as that sounds, it might mean coherent ranting.

. . . which is, I fear, a big improvement.

I have nothing to write about. Which is, of course, why I can't/don't write. It's odd, too, because I think that I have many things to mull over. The irony is that I can never remember what those things are. Y'know, if I write on obvious or mildly stupid topics, like 'free your mind' or 'don't be stupid' or 'what's with our crazy social/governmental system, eh?' or 'I like to make stale jokes about pop-cultural icons', would have to hurt myself.

Likewise, though, I feel vaguely guilty to just leave potential rants unwritten, personal stones unturned, or volatile amounts of anger untapped. I can't just not write, damnit!

Oh well. I'll write even if there is nothing to write about. Maybe that will build up enough frustation to make me understand how to write with a bit of emotion. Or any emotion other than, ". . ."

I sat down today, at 1:00 in the am, to think. I believe. But I was cut short by the ruthless winds of my mental bankruptcy and related things. I remember something about our ideal world as humans or something and blah blah grrrrr. At this moment, not only do I feel perfectly content, but I can't remember anything in my own recent history. I'm pretty damned sure those two things have a lot to do with each other.

Anyway, I find it interesting that whenever I try to figure a good path in which to guide my life, I draw a complete blank. I can't even come up with horribly flawed ideas, just boring silence.

". . ."

Mmm. No more writing tonight. Something's stopping me.

You know what I just realized? I have no memory of my past. I try to look back any stretch of time and I can vaguely remember some people, bits of ideas, but otherwise nothing. I also have no real personality that can think of. While Man can never step back and analyze himself, it's more than a matter of self-awareness at this point. I can't get past a fucking Mental Fog of the Ages, and it's starting to puzzle me.

Like a jigsaw, actually; I once had this really hard puzzle to complete as a child, and I went towards the task with zest 'n' zeal. However, I soon found a sort of mystery: some pieces of the puzzle seemed to be missing. I couldn't be sure, because it was huge (relatively) and I wouldn't be able to really know until I ran out of pieces. I didn't want to waste time on the actual puzzle were it incomplete, since it just doesn't feel right to make a puzzle you already know you can't complete. So I left it. It's sitting there somewhere to this day. However, I'm way too upbeat to let my own metaphors bring me down.

Tommorrow: more needless description of my void of personality, driven by macabre curiosity.

I had three hours of sleep last night. This will not be a coherent post. When I go to home, I believe I will partake in a Tylenol Goddamned PM™ endorsed Siesta. Because I ache.

Anyway, I now cow sow pow mow show row bow wow. Why must sleep be eternally out of reach?

Now (I think) you'll be able to e-mail me. Woo-hoo.

Bah. My throat. My list of minor ailments goes on.

I now have a CD burner.

Blarg.

I have nothing to say. Leave!

Pain/sleep/acetocylic-acid monologue time!

Shoulder hurts. Blah blah blah PAIN blah SUFFERING blarg blah blah TYLENOL PM.

My birthday is coming up. I don't know if that has any implications on anything whatsoever.

Pain.

I want to learn how to lockpick. Lockpick lockpick. I'm not sure, but it's for one of four reasons:
1. It's a useful skill to have.
2. I think that I am James Bond.
3. I am sleepy and pain.
4. I think it will make me cool and give me immense sexual appeal.
When I think about it, it's probably a mix of all of them. Crazy.

And the pain/sleep/acetocylic-acid monologue comes to an end. I will now fall asleep on my couch because of my friend Tylenol Goddamned PM™. Stupid pain.

Yadda yadda yadda country music. That's what it's all about: Country. Country music. I have taken a likin' to it, and I'm not sure how. Perhaps it's a good thing that I have the ability to ignore the fact that I'm from 'way up nawth' and just take a fancy to music from below the country equator. Then again, maybe I'm a goddamn idiot.

Blah blah blah blah maybe blarg I'll start blah on a new project (i.e. old one I never finished) (blah). Why not?

So I think that the approximate mental dialogue leading up to this was "Yadda yadda new direction blah new blah paradigm. Blah answers blarg." In a more coherent reflection on the existence of reality: Gonna get me a CD Burner, gonna burn things. Gonna burn gonna burn gonna burn burn burn. Anyway, "FIRST POST". Let's wait for the second post for anything interesting to be said. Burn. That's a command.