Writing Monster (Blogheara)

Hello friends,

I am concerned. I am concerned because there has been an almost criminal dearth of comments on my most recent updates to KMB, and honestly readers...this hurts me where my heart is.

I think it may be psychological for you cats. Apparently the entry Night Writing made people too sad. I find this strange, seeing as there have been countless similarly disheartening dissertations on my still difficult to discern emotions. Maybe we just reached a critical mass, like it was all too much for my beloved readers. The omni-present bitching, regardless of how poignantly expressed, overwhelmed everyone's sympathy receptors.

The fact that I could potentially be writing to empty air, that no one might read this for months is, in a way, liberating. (also lonely). I could say whatever I cared and damn the consequences. This is usually the attitude I have when writing, but occasionally, i will refrain from being too eviscerating in the name of good taste and common empathy.

I am one of the angriest people I know, but no one is ever directly affronted by my rage. I like to spread it out, mail little packages to neutral parties, so that eventually only a shadow is left. But the shadow is just as dangerous. It colors my perception, influences my interaction, casts a pall on every sentence i speak, type, or text. I don't know why this is. I like to pretend it's out of sincere motives. That I don't confront people I care about because I don't want to risk losing that camaraderie. And I realize that's probably disingenuous and being a crappy friend, but maybe i'm just that caring. Or maybe I don't care enough. Or maybe I'm just a wiener.

I don't know team. I'm used to using my Magic as a sort of outlet. A way to express myself with thinly veiled messages.

And for the past year almost every message has been directed at one person.

But i want that to change.

I'm tired of trying to please this one person, I'm tired of this, as Jordan so eloquently put, "Fight Club type situation," defining me and defining how i see myself. I'm tired of trying to insert myself in someone else' story.

I think I turned a corner the other day. I think I may have, if not resolved, at least articulated how I feel and how I want to change.

But I'm turning a corner like a firetruck. I can't do it alone, and i'm worried, i'm downright scared that if the driver in the back doesn't help me get around this corner; then maybe history is doomed to repeat.

But this person, this passive aggressive little coward is not who I feel like I am. I'm an angry son of a gun, I'm like Bill Hicks, without the addictions. (Also I'm funny). (TAKE THAT BILL HICK'S ESTATE).

So now i'm apprehensive to be all up on front street in the Magic Blog, maybe it's time I started behaving like a man.

A few months ago, I wrote an entry called Checkmate. It was good.

When I wrote this, I listened to La La Lie on repeat, it took twenty-two listens. All I could think was "Guess what? I'm done."

I realize that maybe that wasn't the way I should do things. Maybe there's no such thing as all or nothing; maybe i shouldn't focus on one relationship so relentlessly. Maybe I should find fulfillment in something else, rather than this imaginary wonderland i've convinced myself would make my life ever so grand.

Maybe it's a process, maybe it's gradual, maybe hours of dialogue and honesty aren't enough. Maybe every problem can't be solved by slight of tongue. Maybe sometimes it just takes time?

I don't like things that take time readers. I don't especially like things that take action either. I pretty much just like to hear myself talk. I also like to overthink. I think the overthinking is what does me in. I analyze everything so much and I expect others to do the same, to devote a lot of time to hypothetical pursuits, when in reality they have much more productive and probably healthy things to spend their lonely times doing. So when that time comes, when i'm free to pontificate; it comes out in a rush thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts, a tower of babble, if you will. And after i have flushed my brain, I expect the other person to feel this same sense of relief, to see it as this wonderfully cathartic experience. Maybe they don't see it as that, maybe it's just a step in the right direction, not the destination. (Dinosaur Comics has made me realize that we need new metaphors world, i'm tired of everthing being about traveling or playing sports).

This is where I err. People are not all me. Things take time. I think I'm ready to take time, I think I'm ready to spread myself out. I think I'm ready to find genuine fulfillment.

I think maybe my love letter ends here. This is the conclusion of the pages and pages, and maybe it's better that way.

Or maybe it's just the first step.

I love you readers, even if you're just me.

Night Writing (Deserves a Quiet Write) *With Bonus Quiz!*

Summer has begun readers.

It is time for sleeping, being outside, working, and moving back in with your parents.

This is my last week in the Magic Manor, and soon i will be forced to Magic Blog from my Magic Bedroom.

MM has been good to me. Despite being an ice-cave, it has provided me shelter from the elements and clint eastwood; as well as giving me a taste of that zany college experience.

I don't have much to say tonight my friends. The problem with updating so frequently is that I have less time to squeeze thoughts out of my mind-grapes or have zany experiences to document.

I suppose I will continue my high school saga theme at some point in the future, but they take a certain mood and a block of uninhibited time, neither of which i possess at this moment.

I usually break out KMB to absorb the catharsis that comes with writing neat words; but recently (other than the last essay) it hasn't had its usual soothing effect.

I don't know if this is because i have been burnt out of blogging, or if it's just that i don't feel that I have anything to say, or if i'm simply just too, not overwhelmed, more like anxious and befuddled to gather any sort of lasting comfort.

There is a new girl at work. I can't tell if she is cute or not. I want to her to be cute and I wonder if that is influencing my assessment to the positive or negative. It is difficult to judge the attractiveness of people at my job because we are forced to wear remarkably frumpy polos, and the new girl in question had her hair up and glasses on. I think she may have that 80s comedy hotness, whereupon, once the hair is let down and glasses removed she is attractive.

I don't have any assessment of her personality because i didn't talk to her, and more importantly, i only judge women on their looks.

(I just looked at the amount of text i have filled this box with and was immediately disheartened)

It's tough to write when you don't have anything to say.

There was a small get together at my house last night.

Joel and Stephen came over, along with a host of friends who left town to go to other schools, including a man i didn't mind seeing.

Not to discredit my lovely friends from over the state(s) but the only one who has really been mentioned in this blog and is sure to illicit at least a paragraph or two of text who was at my humble abode last night was miss claire.

I don't like being social with that woman. It bugs me, I feel like she ignores me, which could very well just be my own paranoid narcissistic delusions, but it seems to be true.

Why the hell am i writing about this? There is no upside, at this point my teenage heartache has been exhausted as a literary device, it's not like i'm unveiling any sort of new and exciting information. I sure none of you magic groupies care to hear anymore about it, especially since i know all of you in real life and do plenty sufficient bitching to y'alls faces. And, i don't think she does, but if claire ever got a mind to read this, she'd probably be horribly weirded out and think i was some sort of obssessive Oliver character. Hell, i'm writing it and I think that.

I mean, i have a theory as to why she gets so much press in the MB, it was developed when i spoke to lindsey during the formation of Sometimes I Feel Fourteen (not a link, just colors).

I said something that I found rather telling and may explain this pathological need to e-gripe.

As i was talking to lindsey i said, "It bothers me that i can write pretty words and it means nothing to her."

And I think herein lies the issue.

Kyle's Magic Blog was birthed essentially as an extension of a very long and personal letter that was written by me, to her, essentially a much crappier but probably more earnest version of the probably inevitable Year Twelve (A Prompted Reflection).

Long story short, she read it, it seemed to mean a lot to both of us, but didn't really change anything; at least not the way i want and had deluded myself into believing it could.

But that, plus my entrance into higher education made me realize that it would be a good idea to keep writing, and I did.

But other than the MB's stated purpose (to celebrate me) it also had an ulterior, not exactly sinister, and in its own way, beautiful motive, which was to try to get the pretty girl across the state to notice me.

I think we may have hit a breakthrough readers. (I think y'all need a name, like juggalos, something magic related, unicorns?).

Maybe all of my romantic frusturation is fed by magic blog.

It makes sense.

I wander through my pretty boring life looking for situations that could make interesting magic material. (Today i wondered if I found out i was dying in two weeks and wrote a book in the short time if it would become a perrennial best seller after i was gone).

And not like specifically romantic material, just material, just things i can write about and put clever parentheses after. Just things to say, in an inane little attempt to show off.

And I realized this last week but didn't vocalize it.

This is what I do best. More than anything. It's what I want to do best. More than anything. This sad little blog that produces the occasional quality joke is the sum and culmination of what I want to be known for and what I want my future to be.

And that's why I'm dejected, that letter/this blog is my best and final effort to get her attention.

I suppose i thought it would even the playing field. All of my physical faults are negated by this particular medium and i'm able to express myself more honestly and articulately than I ever could with my mouth. And the words last, even if they are stupid and goofy, they are forever honest.

So in my fight club fantasy land, all of these words, be they pretty, funny, or pathetic, are a 114+ page long awkward approach at a bar.

A super personal pick-up line that is about as effective as asking if she was hurt by her fall from heaven.

And even this semi-revelation/semi-confession is essentially meaningless. It's all just mental masturbation.

It doesn't help me in the practical.

After sebastian, stephen, susie, and lindsey read this, it won't have changed anything.

It will still be awkward between claire and I because she just doesn't care about me the way I care about her, and my stupid selfish jealousy will forever get the in way.

It bothers me that we interact so well one on one, but in a social situation i just feel like a horse's ass.

And KMB just exacerbates the issue, because all of the people around us know how i feel about her more than she does! (i wish there was a punctuation mark that was somewhere between a period and exclamation point in severity).

I just chase my tail, best friend -> love interest -> hate interest ->best friend -> &c.

Also, in our year apart she has gotten hotter, which really is just pouring salt on my heart.

I wish i was more mature, or could meet another girl to distract my idiot face.

Advanced Global Personality Test Results Extraversion |||||||||| 38% Stability |||||||||||||| 54% Orderliness |||||||||||||| 54% Accommodation |||||||||||||| 54% Interdependence |||||||||||| 43% Intellectual |||||||||||||||| 66% Mystical |||||||||||||| 56% Artistic |||||||||||||||| 63% Religious |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Hedonism |||||||||||||||| 70% Materialism |||||||||||| 43% Narcissism |||||||||||||||| 63% Adventurousness |||||| 30% Work ethic |||||| 30% Humanitarian |||||||||||||| 56% Conflict seeking |||||| 30% Need to dominate |||||||||| 36% Romantic |||||||||||||||||||| 83% Avoidant |||||||||||||| 56% Anti-authority |||||||||||||||||| 76% Wealth |||||||||||||||| 63% Dependency |||||||||||||| 56% Change averse |||||||||||||| 56% Cautiousness |||||||||||||| 56% Individuality |||||||||||| 43% Sexuality |||||||||||||| 56% Peter pan complex |||||||||||| 50% Family drive |||||| 23% Physical Fitness |||||||||||| % Histrionic |||||||||||| 50% Paranoia |||||||||||||||| 63% Vanity |||||||||||| 43% Honor |||||||||||||||||| 76% Thriftiness |||||||||||||||| 70%

Take Free Advanced Global Personality Test
personality test by similarminds.com

Stability results were medium which suggests you are moderately relaxed, calm, secure, and optimistic.

Orderliness results were medium which suggests you are moderately organized, hard working, and reliable while still remaining flexible, efficient, and fun.

Extraversion results were moderately low which suggests you are reclusive, quiet, unassertive, and secretive.

trait snapshot:
does not make friends easily, secretive, introverted, reclusive, observer, dislikes leadership, somewhat socially awkward, does not like to stand out, dislikes large parties, values solitude, solitary, avoidant, ambivalent about fitting in, not dominant, unassertive, suspicious, prudent, unadventurous, worrying, weird, intellectual, frequently second guesses self

Year Nine (A Prompted Reflection: Part Two)

Tonight, I compiled all of my blog entries into a single chronological word document. Keeping my crazy spacing intact, it was 119 pages long. The word count was 34,022.

To put that in perspective, The Perks of Being a Wallflower is about 120,000 words. That means I only have one-fourth of the angst required to be a success in the mope genre. (But I'm much better).

Because I love you readers, and for some reason, every night in the appropriately named "witching hours" (I don't know if there are actual "hours" or just one "hour," it's been some time since i read the Big Friendly Giant), appropriately named because this blog is magic, and I am a modern day wordlock. I get the desire to type words into a little white box surrounded by a larger beige box with all manner of colorful buttons.

I have to imagine this nightly writing sesh (sesh = session) won't continue all week, what with the working MWF, but I think summer is probably just conducive to extra blog attacking.

So, four months after her inception, I have decided to continue my brief history of trinity. Here, I will attempt to document various and sundry important parts of my Freshman year of high school.

You can read the first bit here.

If you are a longtime reader (you all are) then you will remember that my basic prompt, from Meagan, was "You should write more about people I know and times I know. Maybe things will start to come back to me."

I will do so admirably.

My freshman year marked my first major swing at adolescent romance and the arts of love. I have already detailed the Jenna saga (less of a saga, perhaps telenovella?) but that lasted all of three weeks so I don't believe it really impacted me.

No, the real heart destroyer of years fourteen and fifteen was Chelsea.

Chelsea was attractive to other fourteen year olds. The kind of girl that, in retrospect, you realize had nothing on the interesting looking girl that everyone overlooked until it was too late. She had bleached blond hair, bright blue eyes (i am always attracted to women with striking eyes), an american eagle wardrobe, and an ultimately immature view of attraction.

She was the girl that would be cast as the lead crush object of the younger quirky son in a tv show that prided itself on being a realistic portrayal of youth. (Think Sam's crush in freaks and geeks).

Chelsea intrigued me. Coming from the strictly regimented caste system of public school, and unaware that trinity was, in a rather positive way, a melting pot. She was shallow, self-obsessed, and catty; the recipe for popularity in the school I was accustomed to. (Please don't take this as an indictment of her present character, I never really talk to her anymore, but no one is who they are going to be at fourteen.)

Allow me to digress for a moment. As I wrote, "I never really talk to her anymore." I realized that this was my main strategy for girls that I perceive as rejecting me. I haven't spoken to Chelsea since I was maybe sixteen. I only recently reconnected with Susie, mostly because she is unrelentingly sweet and forgiving. And, more often than not, when I am irritated with claire, I flat out avoid her, as we have documented in the MB with my mall dodges as little as two months ago. I think I just like to pull a third eye blind and cut ties with all the lies.

Regardless, after high school retreat, I started chatting with chelsea via AIM. (the club for people without photo ids and frumpy sweatpants). I still remember her screen name (sn) but i shan't share it because God knows what kind of creepers read this blog, I wouldn't want them to travel back in time and harass her.

As almost any female can attest, when my visage and flop sweat are hidden and my mumbles concealed by pretty text, I manage to be moderately charming.

With this e-ace in the e-hole, i worked my magic on chelsea. She liked fashionable things, and by that i mean, things that are fashionable to other fourteen year olds. This consisted primarily of sweatshop manufactured clothing and gifs of cutsey phrases that could be plastered on a xanga. I showed her my sensitive side. Quoting lyrics from oasis, yearning for my own personal "wonderwall," totally getting john lennon's message of peace and understanding (massively marketable at that), and sharing her desire to be kissed in the rain. Coupled with my bad boy persona (my xanga picture was me holding my stratocaster); this onslaught of sensitivity overwhelmed her.

I was staying at a friend's house with my mother in Colorado Springs the first semester of my Freshman year. I was in Colorado because I was getting my braces off and my parents would rather drive ten hours than just have some orthodontist in lubbock do it.

I stole away to the computer and hopped on aim.

There is a certain piece of courtship that is very specific to our generation. You can have your drive-ins, your football games, communes, etc.; but for me, there was nothing as exhilarating and exciting as seeing the screen name of the girl you had a crush on lit up in black on your buddy list. As the program loaded you waited in anticipation, hoping beyond hope that she would be on, but never letting yourself get too excited, because she might not be, and then you were stuck just talking to sebastian.

But when she was, it was so wonderful.

This particular afternoon, Chelsea (who was "spazy" and possibly ninety-seven) happened to be on at the same time as me.

She was the only one on my buddy list that was online. It was fate, it was like we floated alone, tethered together in the vastness of the internet.

We chatted. I played it cool, describing my trip, asking about volleyball, standard friend stuff.

Then the conversation took a turn to the flirty. At first of the innocuous type, but it drifted into serious "do you like me" territory.

(i told claire this cute anecdote the other day, but i've been trying to work it into the magi b for a little bit, just never gotten around to it. Plus she never reads this. possibly because she has become a villainous character. i even call her voldemort)

We chased each other tails, like kids do (also dogs), neither of us ever actually confessing to being attracted to the other. So in the end, the ever pragmatic miss chelsea devised a scheme.

"ok," she typed, "how about, we do a countdown together, and if we like each other, at the end, we type '1' and if not we type '2'."

A bead of sweat ran down my side. I ran my dry tongue over the dry roof of my mouth. I thought.

I thought, "Do i really want to do this, do i really want to be rejected by the most popular girl in my grade, maybe it's better to just live in mystery."

I was tense and adrenal, this would not end well. There's no way a sexy hoe like chelsea would ever be interested in my goofy ass.

"Ok," i typed, "let's do it"

"3"
"2"
"1"
...

"1" "1"

I was relieve and surprised and encouraged. "I am going to have a girlfriend."

I didn't know then what I know now. That for all her faults, she was still a nice girl who didn't want to hurt my feelings. When I typed one, i threw my fragile young heart into that white window, she typed one to keep it from getting too terribly damaged.

These days, I don't type one anymore. I live in mystery. It's better that way. I can have all of the pretend girlfriends I want. We talk online, we text, we hang out every once in a while, and I never have to worry about that sting of rejection. The best part, I never have to get to know them. Sure, I know their favorite bands, and foods, and characters on the office; but i don't have to deal with their baggage. I don't have to know the things that make them hurt, those things don't have to make me hurt; and it's better that way, at least for now. I can still be the fourteen year old kid talking to chelsea on the internet, not the fourteen year old kid staring at the pretty girl with green eyes and a potter puppet pals patch on her backpack across the room.

I was elated. This girl, this girl, who, in my adolescent eyes, was perfect, liked me; me!

I was back in Lubbock soon, footloose and braces-free; and my courtship was redoubled.

At first all went well. Just because we liked each other, it didn't mean we were "going out," no, that was a whole nother level, and it required finesse to get her to agree to such a formal arrangement.

It was weird, the first face to face meeting after our prime conversation. Awkward smiles and glances, each of us remembering, but neither of us confessing.

We started talking for hours on the phone. Like her screen name, I can still remember her number, a number that I haven't dialed in almost five years.

Phone conversations were nice. I could crack little jokes, play on words, feel clever, while she let loose the occasional giggle. The night would wear on and as i got sleepier, i tried less, my chipper conversation devolving into a languid drawl, as she yawned every few words. But it made me feel happy to be so connected to another person. Even when she was having a sleep over, she would ignore her friends and talk to me.

She loved the rain. She wanted a boy who would call or text her whenever it was raining, just to remind her that he was thinking of her. Since I didn't get a cell phone until my sixteenth birthday, I would borrow my mom's and call her whenever it drizzled; just so she knew.

A common topic of conversation was the fact that she had never been kissed, and the circumstances she wanted to surround her first kiss. It had to be nighttime and in the rain.

I wanted to make this happen. (spoiler: i did not).

Around december, the vinyl started to crack. She started ignoring my calls, paying more attention to her friends. I would get irritated, complain about her to jade, but I still pursued, john eldridge style.

She claimed she was into me, but she was talking to another guy. A baseball player from lubbock christian. (A school I would end my pitching career against undefeated). This was shocking. I was shocked that she would abandon sweet sensitive me for a better looking douchier guy. It was my first taste of the future.

She said she appreciated me, she understood that most guys wouldn't keep it up after she made it clear that I was her second choice. She never pulled the "let's be friends card." She kept it honest, she told me she appreciated me, and to make it extra gay, compared me to some stupid jesse mcartney song about a guy who never gave up or similar bullshit. I was like a feeding tube for her ego, a constant source of nutritious compliments.

(I wonder what it would be like for chelsea to read this, I bet it would be interesting at least. I wonder if somewhere out on the internet there's a thousand word dissertation on me?)

She was on a ski trip with lindsey, I was in my grandfather's garage, listening to Hot Fuss on repeat, quoting "Change Your Mind," at her. I made my last push, laying it all down on the keyboard, explaining that she was the only girl for me, and nothing would make me happier, all the things that you say with absolute conviction one night but bring the blood flushing to your face in the years to come.

It wasn't the same after that.

I asked her to homecoming, but she would rather go alone.

I tried my best to look good. I wore my new american eagle jeans, and my american eagle vertical striped pink shirt (she loved pink shirts on guys), and put a little gel in my freshly cut hair.

We rode in a limo, a mix of the dated and the dateless, we ate the same restaurant, tried to enjoy each other's company, I tried to pretend, but it was far from a date, it was a lesson in self pity.

Maybe that's where it started, my lack of confidence bordering on contempt with myself, in the ladies department. Maybe it was all born that january evening in a Carinos. Three and a half years later, i would almost throw up in that carinos' parking lot, anticipating what was, at the time, the most devastating thing I could ever hear.

Fuck carinos, i never liked it and it's overpriced.

The next semester was all angst and desperation. I tried as best I could to reclaim Chelsea, but it was useless. I became annoying.

I was spared further embarrassment when she transfered the next year. (i wonder what would have happened if she had stayed? Would it have been the same story, but with a much less worthy girl? It almost makes me happy to think about, it's so weird)

In a way I am grateful for the experience. Sure it set a rather crippling precedent when dealing with the opposite sex, but it did make me realize that i didn't want the popular girl, she wasn't worth it, and sometimes she wasn't that nice. But, i do have to give her credit, she was never mean and i don't think she ever intentionally meant hurt me, if not for my own sense of pride, it would have been a nice clean break.

She also got me to stop dressing like daria, for which i am eternally grateful.

And i also killed two and half hours writing about her, i wish they had been at work rather than at night-nap time.

It's fun to remember readers.

Sometimes I Feel Fourteen (Like Tonight)

Today was the last day of high school for the TCHS class of 2009.

A little less than twelve months ago, I was leaving too.

After the 3:30 bell rang, I circled the foyer and said goodbye to the lion. My friends and I, grouped together for the last time, trading stories, laughs, general geniality. Anticipating the cruise we were embarking on in two days, not really considering this to be our last hurrah; the sadness not creeping in.

Truth be told. I was never sad about leaving high school. I wasn't sad the last day, i wasn't sad at baccalaureate, and I was so preoccupied with other things that I barely remember graduation.

I remember getting my diploma, head shorn, nose making me look like the eagle from the muppets, smiles, handshakes, awkward hug, and sitting down, filing out sound by side, strictly regimented joyless hat throw, then changing into my scorpion shirt and cargos, blasting Work, heading to the reception, nauseos.

(i just burned my wrist on a foreman grill)

Looking at my table, receiving my gifts (entirely gracious), flashes (the camera kind, not the good kind), stupid conversations, driving to the party, half-hearted basketball, stale cookies, dominating at ping-pong, nausea, lying on the sidewalk, stars, clouds, and jimmy eat world, lindsey comforts, back inside, pineapples, yelling, chickening out, chickening in, an hour of emotion, driving, waiting, cuban cigars, vomit, home, bed.

I guess I miss it sometimes now. That mischevious camraderie is gone forever.

I had a good night tonight.

I went to Mcalister's and enjoyed a corned beef on rye with mustard. I went with my most complicated best friend. We chatted, we caught up, we enjoyed each other's company. I told stories, she pretended to be interested. It was pleasant, we arranged to meet again soon and often. I loved it.

One bit sticks at me. It's a common enough bit. Nothing important. I dismissed it. Now, at night, alone with my xbox and kevin spacey, it bothers me. It shouldn't, why am I not the sweetest? (My sweetness is not the bothersome bit).

I feel like fourteen year old me is still around.

Braces, long hair, black shirts and insecurites. Flirting over aim, making stupid videos, and staring at the pretty girl across the room; hoping we grow up together.

More than any of my peers, i think the pretty girl made me grow up.

It bothers me that I have not kissed a girl in six years.

It bothers me that I think about things too much.

It bothers me that I think about things that do not exist.

It bothers me that I try to wish things into existence.

Tonight I am pretending that I am the sweetest boy she's ever met. (But I'm Not)

It bothers me that I burned my wrist.

I'm just concerned that, despite what she says and I think, I'm not mature enough to not take it personally.

I think romantically, I am still very much fourteen.

I believe that leaving will help. Being away from all but two people I know. I will have to grow up.

(I just had a chat with miss lindsey)

Lindsey says this should be exciting. It terrifies me. I am bad at making friends. I am awkward and I don't speak well and I'm sweaty and fidgety.

(For the past few days I have been listening to the same forty-five seconds of Ben Gibbard playing Brand New Colony acoustically over and over)

Sebastian weighed in on my melancholy, "Why are girls so retarded with that shit? She obviously knows you've got feelings. Its like they do it to be mean."

I claim that I have matured beyond taking everything personally and he rebuts with, "Whatever. No one does."

He has a point.

I am an unfair man.

I expect too much of everyone but myself. (not true, i expect a lot from me, but i actually live up to my expectations of myself)

I blame books and movies.

We've been over this months ago.

I won't lie, I am developing a self satisfied smirk. It's a little comforting. Actually, in an odd way, hugely comforting that the Magic B, has kind of returned full cycle. Like a pathetic phoenix, he rises and falls.

I don't know. I am much more cheerful now, I have high hopes for tomorrow. Thank you for accompanying me on my lonely little late night trip down memory lane.

You are my favorites, readers; welcome to my livejournal.

Sometimes We Fail (A dirge)

Operation: Eat Little Caesars Without Getting Crumbs in the Sheets, was not a success.