Gosh, Blog,

I feel just rotten having forgotten about this thing for eighteen days. There were things getting between me and you, my public; things you wouldn't understand, shouldn't understand. I couldn't have updated, and I didn't have.

The last couple of weeks have been spent trying to reconcile my unemployment with my money-wasting lifestyle. The latter has shown to be the victor, and I fear morbid results are on the way.

Checks and balances; last week, I adopted a new cat from the Humane Society. His name's If Gary Busey Were a Cat, although we've been calling him If Gary. Then, yesterday, my mother calls to tell me my little old dog has died. She was the first living thing I was ever charged with caring for, although I never really took too gooda care of her. I remember once, I couldn't have been more than five, in the middle of the winter when I carried her up the stairs of our front porch, which couldn't have been more than four feet or so, holding her out over the icy garden, and dropping her into the yard on her back, I guess just to see what would happen. My mom yelled at me; I don't remember how I reacted immediately, but whenever I think about it now I feel awful, and shit if I'm not gonna miss the hell out of that little dog.

A more author-centric entry than usual, but I haven't been feeling all that ephemeral recently.

Maybe I'm too Smart to Sleep

Welp, the passion's gone from my life. It left the moment we had a 60-degree day with sun and thawed dirt. Passion, usurped in an instant by the immature freewheeliness of spring. Not until autumn's whipping winds will I again find the perceptive tunnel vision required for me to pull it together and do something. All I can think of as it becomes warmer and friendlier outside is kites and tall steel slides and the smell of crayons. I wish meeting girls in the park was as easy as John Cusack makes it look. I can't wait to start finding tufts of nylon fibers stuck on benches again.

I deleted my facebook about three weeks ago, and my anxiety levels have dropped like a baby bird on the sidewalk. But my connections to the tangential people are shriveling like a baby bird on the sidewalk. Still, I'm finding a lot more time to sit around and be bored, which is something I didn't have enough of before now.

I'm currently taking an introductory course in logic. I'd always thought before now that I was a reasonable, logical person, and now I've been forced to abandon that fantasy like a mother bird who pushes her babies out of the nest and has to watch their swollen, purple, ugly, ugly eyes pop like blueberries on the sidewalk. I miss the feeling of intellectual superiority I once had over people who suck, and I'm finding that I'm pretty much a know-nothing with a head full of 1996 Guinness facts and no real smarts, and those sucky folks have probably had the right idea all along.

Happy Spring!

Hannity Fair

I've realized that in order to have a successful (by which I mean, "serviceably popular") blog, I must choose from a very few, unenticing options:

1. I can look for other bloggers who share my interests and sense of humor, join a community, and network until I'm satisfied with my level of internet celebrity (puke).

2. I can post violent, daily rants of a racist/sexist/capitalist/nationalist/Christian/xenophobic nature and just wait until a bunch of angsty high school kids find my blog and try to retaliate with a morass of spelling and grammar errors.

3. I can become famous like Diablo Cody, write entries about what I did today, and then watch as thirty five to fifty MySpace users ejaculate in the direction of even my boringest drivel.

These options all sound like more trouble than they're worth, so I guess I'll remain in the same rut as a few dozen million of my fellow Americans: writing in a glorified, involuntarily private digital journal, waxing poetic to myself about our wonderful black president. One thing I believe the User-Generated Content Generation has yet to face is that, despite our newfound access to information and our sudden ability to network with almost anyone on the planet, most of us are just putting ourselves out there for the world to ignore. Our culture is no more intimate today than it was 25 years ago; at least not on a social level. It is, however, filled with infinitely more misspelled racial epithets, pseudo-intellectualism, and videos of fat people falling down.

Sleep Walk

Rather than my usual rant about something stupid, something irrelevant, or something I know nothing about, I will, for once, discuss what's really making me so angsty. I hate my life. At this moment, I can't fathom one positive thing. There is no joie de vivre, no pep, no pleasure, no anticipation. The idea of one more conscious minute is agonizing. I want for everyone in my life to stop caring about me so I can be done with it, so I can take my farewell ride with no regrets and no teary-eyed maidens at my back. None of the people to whom I've ever pledged my heart has ever wanted it. It is expected that we should cling to life, but I feel I am instead shackled to it. Perhaps this will change, but it's a deep, deep well I've excavated, and I'm not gazing up for want of a lifeline.