Neue

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, ". . ."