Searching Intravenously
Pardon my absence, computer journal, I had to go out for a while and get some fresh air. All of this yakking about myself was making me nauseous. But having peeked in after a considerable absence I've decided that I can now stomach the activity in here.
A few days ago, perhaps out of complete boredom I leafed through the intangible pages of this electric journal and it afforded some reflection. For good or ill I've remained a fairly consistent individual. While internally this seems like a keen notion, externally it's probably made me unpleasant to deal with. All of my problems that my peers hoped I would have ironed out during my matronly maturation period have stuck with me like so much delicious peanut butter. I'm still a curmudgeon, I'm still paranoid, I'm still lazy and thick-headed and introverted and underdeveloped.
I wish my critics were right here interjecting their opinions right alongside my lines of prose, so I could scratch out what they're writing and draw flattering pictures of myself in the margin to HUMILIATE them for attempting to humanize me.
Just pranking. The fun of keeping this journal is that it is off-limits to external critics. I can build my self-esteem until it towers above my abilities to keep it up. It isn't an accurate preparation for the reality I have to face each day, but it's a nice daydream.
Writing at night is a strange unfamiliar beast to me, but one I have observed from a distance long enough to know how to attempt to tame. It bears only a passing resemblance to my daytime steed, but I see potential in it where others may have not. There is good in many things and I intend to ruin them all. Only joking, I love harmony.
A few days ago, perhaps out of complete boredom I leafed through the intangible pages of this electric journal and it afforded some reflection. For good or ill I've remained a fairly consistent individual. While internally this seems like a keen notion, externally it's probably made me unpleasant to deal with. All of my problems that my peers hoped I would have ironed out during my matronly maturation period have stuck with me like so much delicious peanut butter. I'm still a curmudgeon, I'm still paranoid, I'm still lazy and thick-headed and introverted and underdeveloped.
I wish my critics were right here interjecting their opinions right alongside my lines of prose, so I could scratch out what they're writing and draw flattering pictures of myself in the margin to HUMILIATE them for attempting to humanize me.
Just pranking. The fun of keeping this journal is that it is off-limits to external critics. I can build my self-esteem until it towers above my abilities to keep it up. It isn't an accurate preparation for the reality I have to face each day, but it's a nice daydream.
Writing at night is a strange unfamiliar beast to me, but one I have observed from a distance long enough to know how to attempt to tame. It bears only a passing resemblance to my daytime steed, but I see potential in it where others may have not. There is good in many things and I intend to ruin them all. Only joking, I love harmony.