shojo

Contrived...

Lackadaisical...

You know the deal.

Oh my God, they killed Duncan Idaho.

You bastards.

If no love is, O God, what fele I so?
And if love is, what thing and which is he?
If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?
If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me,
When every torment and adversite
That cometh of hym may to me savory thinke,
For ay thrust I, the more that ich it drynke.

I'd love to spend...
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Yes, well, that was awful.

New York was, well, eh, I didn't see New York.

I find out the moment I arrive in JFK that my great uncle, who lived in Washington D.C., had recently passed away.

I spent the rest of the trip down there, hating everything for taking him away before I could see him one last time.

Everything blows.

On a normal day, I would be, at this moment, swearing sulfurically at the fax machine, declaring that it was a useless piece of monkey crap and, in response to it's apathetic beep, would scream, "Yeah? That's what your mother said last night!"

I would then turn to the nearest coworker and demand a high-five for that little gem, slapping at them whether or not...
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I am a vacuum of meticulously conditioned discontent.

Jagged, happenstance, flux, this all inspires a sense of criminal intent; a livid and half-mad sympathy.

But for all its squalor, that plodding, wistful, trite poetry just keeps me going.
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I am a researcher now. I research things. Important things. Things that wholly validate the concept of research. Did you shoot your children lately? No need...
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My desires elude me. I dwell upon that which pleases me and find I could no better grasp it than I could a wisp of smoke.

I am, as you could guess, talking about dinner tonight. Could you ever possibly think my sanity is intact if I told you I actually DON'T want instant macaroni-and-cheese for the 12th night in a row? It's madness, I...
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Uploaded a few pictures of myself. Looking at them make me realize how laughably introverted I am. Not one single picture with someone else.

Bugger.


I'm re-reading the Wheel of Time series. Fuck me, but I can't pick up some real literture to save my life. I feel as if I'm miserably stuck in a whirlpool of cheesy fantasy fiction that blantantly rips-off Tolkien. Feh......
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I am driven to perfection by the howling derision I know is somewhere inside of you.

But fuck, I'm good at this. Damn good. There isn't anything stopping me now but maudlin sounds and gossamer shrouds.

Do you dig?