mumblestaticcore
nyuh muh wha?
I'm trying to think of ways in which this journal is something other than a jellyfied rendering of pseudo-random neurological waste by-product. Because, honestly, this is supposed to be a journal, in which journal-izing/journal-y stuff happens, has happened, might happen? It's gottdang hap-hazard in here. Reading back it's not like any of this stuff is even remotely navigating the limbus of posterity. Really, like the bloated mass of media with its incessant tinnitus of human right's violations, natural disasters, and celebrity gossip perennially jabbing my apathy node - same bleffin' thing, nothing occurs.
Then again, my life is a ride on the bore-train. Not that I find it particularly boring myself - I can find the utmost amusement in the gnashing mouth of my cat as she tries to devour a common house-fly 17 times smarter than her, or the nuanced word-play found on random signs and bits of graffiti; or, sans senses, hinging on the drool-slick precipice of a particularly insane mental loop. Everything's like goddamn cirque du soleil in my head, only more pretentious. And possibly gayer. Not supranaturally
batvomit gay, though. Nope, my smelly thoughts put the B.O. in BORING - perhaps it's time to grab that container of bitter apple and spray it on my frontal lobe? Keep me away from that thing.
What this means is that I do very little to make my life interesting, either to myself or others - because I'm always harvesting interesting things in my head (except when I don't want to - in which case they start harvesting ME). Now, due to the zugzwang potential money woes have positioned me in, I likely won't be indulging in any wanderlust this season either. The desire to spontaneously shatter my current existence, pick and choose the pieces I like and reforge them into some horrible world-eating patchwork marionette of your nightmares is strong, believe me, but likely won't occur soon.
This is in contrast to, say, crow - who's getting back tonight from her lukumi initiation in Portland and apparently had an 'intense' time. Chickens were mysteriously involved somehow, though it's not for me to say or even possibly know but I'm sure she'll be updating her journal with select details for your voyeuristic pleasure. This isn't to suggest I'm seeking cosmic acceptance or answers, or that there's this esteem-eating sarlacc deep within me that I can never satiate - only that I'm malleable enough to circumvent the impatience of change. Perhaps 'exercising adaptability' as they'd say - which, as we all know, doesn't make for compelling narcissistic blog-snob faux-literature.
In other words, updates will remain sporadic until such a time I can't, the prologue of which shall henceforth be "I'm fine, don't worry about me, nothing to see here, move along please."
I'm trying to think of ways in which this journal is something other than a jellyfied rendering of pseudo-random neurological waste by-product. Because, honestly, this is supposed to be a journal, in which journal-izing/journal-y stuff happens, has happened, might happen? It's gottdang hap-hazard in here. Reading back it's not like any of this stuff is even remotely navigating the limbus of posterity. Really, like the bloated mass of media with its incessant tinnitus of human right's violations, natural disasters, and celebrity gossip perennially jabbing my apathy node - same bleffin' thing, nothing occurs.
Then again, my life is a ride on the bore-train. Not that I find it particularly boring myself - I can find the utmost amusement in the gnashing mouth of my cat as she tries to devour a common house-fly 17 times smarter than her, or the nuanced word-play found on random signs and bits of graffiti; or, sans senses, hinging on the drool-slick precipice of a particularly insane mental loop. Everything's like goddamn cirque du soleil in my head, only more pretentious. And possibly gayer. Not supranaturally
batvomit gay, though. Nope, my smelly thoughts put the B.O. in BORING - perhaps it's time to grab that container of bitter apple and spray it on my frontal lobe? Keep me away from that thing.
What this means is that I do very little to make my life interesting, either to myself or others - because I'm always harvesting interesting things in my head (except when I don't want to - in which case they start harvesting ME). Now, due to the zugzwang potential money woes have positioned me in, I likely won't be indulging in any wanderlust this season either. The desire to spontaneously shatter my current existence, pick and choose the pieces I like and reforge them into some horrible world-eating patchwork marionette of your nightmares is strong, believe me, but likely won't occur soon.
This is in contrast to, say, crow - who's getting back tonight from her lukumi initiation in Portland and apparently had an 'intense' time. Chickens were mysteriously involved somehow, though it's not for me to say or even possibly know but I'm sure she'll be updating her journal with select details for your voyeuristic pleasure. This isn't to suggest I'm seeking cosmic acceptance or answers, or that there's this esteem-eating sarlacc deep within me that I can never satiate - only that I'm malleable enough to circumvent the impatience of change. Perhaps 'exercising adaptability' as they'd say - which, as we all know, doesn't make for compelling narcissistic blog-snob faux-literature.
In other words, updates will remain sporadic until such a time I can't, the prologue of which shall henceforth be "I'm fine, don't worry about me, nothing to see here, move along please."