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.