Thoughts on the past indeterminate period of time:

I look worse than I feel, but that’s not saying much, I look pretty dreadful. Food didn’t stay down, but that’s okay because it was terrible anyway. Started smoking again, missed my sweet, sweet cancer-sticks. Reality is about as interesting as it can be, which is to say, not at all. Been having extremely vivid and more-bizarre-than-usual dreams lately, which I’m sure is a sign of something, but I’m not sure what. Google’s latest foray into mimicry vexes me only mildly. A brief addiction to Pepsi Max has been quashed by apathy. I don’t miss people, per se, but there are some folks who I feel like I should talk to more often. I’m so used to lies, that sometimes I forget how to tell the truth. I think everything would be better if I could just learn to chill out and not be angry at things. I had one other thing to say, but deleted it because it sounded stupid. I think the problem with the world is that I don’t feel like I belong here. On a brighter note, my debt’s going down pretty steadily, albeit slowly. End of line.

Things I admire: Mechanical engineers, astronauts, Stephen Hawking, monocles, leaf-cutter ants, medieval alchemists, and cats for their aloofness.

And sometimes I feel like just dropping the faux-eloquence, poring over a thesaurus in order to seem like some kind of intellectual and just being all like,

hey,

it’s not really like this,

I’m just this guy who smokes too much and wishes he wasn’t so shy at parties.

After all the stress and adversity of life as of late, the bleak nights and the stark mornings, nothing raises the spirits quite as much as making french toast at 1am.

Here’s to the good times.

:)

I read a comic once when I was a kid, where this guy’s body was controlled from inside by all these tiny versions of himself, like some warped kind of Matryoshka doll marionette. I presume it was intended as light-hearted humour, though in retrospect there’s an oddly sinister edge to the concept.

I thought about that while I was shaving; the gel I use is oddly similar in appearance and texture to a male bodily fluid that I care not to think too much about.

How many hairs? one of them would say, staring in wonder through from the back of my mechanical eyeballs, watching the sink fill up with discarded hair. It’s like a little Vietnam in that sink. Body hair instead of trees, but smells about the same.

Many, sir, the other would reply from within the tangled mass of rusting cables inside my brain.

Many.