"I don’t have to think.
I only have to do it.
That’s old news."
What song is that? Guess. You know it.
If you don’t, you can go fuck yourself. I really don’t care for you, or anything.
Such is my despair.
I’m insane enough that “such” doesn’t look like an actual word to me, even though it flows off my keyboard flawlessly.
I don’t need a spell check, because it just pours out of me.
A bunch of words I’m too nervous to speak, but can write without effort.
That’s my torture.
I can write every little thing that occurs to me in a relatively precise and succinct manner.
Precise and succinct to me, anyway. Because I wrote it. In my own mind it all makes perfect sense..
I don’t care if it makes sense to you, really. I only write so that in time to come I can be amused or bemused by it myself (which is pretty much the same, no matter which way you cut it. Bemused and amused are really the same fucking thing to me).
But I have so many experiences and emotions I feel obligated to expound upon. All of which I wish to put on the internet. Which is ridiculous when you think about it. The internet in of itself has become such a trite and confused term. It’s a place where you find every banality possible. You somehow filter it down to something you care to comprehend. My opinion matters least of all.
But that’s your prerogative. Surely reading back on this in time to come, I’ll be amused, bemused, and fuck yous.
SMR 2004.04.27, late night.