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Thought I had at two thirty last night:
"If I were a gerbil, I'd be dead."
Please note that this was a fairly unexpected thought, as prior to this gerbils had not exactly been on my mind. At all.
And I decided this morning that Voltaire* was the Madonna** of the Enlightenment.
Yeeeeeeah.
The other night I was on a bit of a nostalgic trip and went looking back at old journal entries (not just here, but on paper). This lead to two realizations:
1. As much as I like to whine about what a crap writer I am, I have actually come pretty far. Most notably, I am a hell of a lot more concise. Where I would once go on a tangent about how society is a lie and identity is an illusion, with lots of comparisons to dancing buttercups and seething cesspools of something vaguely sticky***, I now simply say "Man, the world sucks sometimes." Where I would once ramble about the futility of human emotion and the pain of romance and how no one will ever love me and I just don't CARE anymore, dammit, I now simply say "Gosh, I would really like to lose my virginity sometime." And where I would once listen to Limp Bizkit and write shitty, shitty poetry, I now simply...
Well. Uh. I don't listen to Limp Bizkit anymore!****
2. I really miss the music that I used to listen to in a desperate attempt to piss my parents off. (I was stuck in this babybat phase for a while and thought that Marilyn Manson lyrics perfectly described the turmoil of my soul. Really. Fucking. Embarrassing. I still do like Marilyn Manson, but just because he's fun.) I've gone almost a year without listening to Jack Off Jill. How have I survived?
Also, have discovered that the Bravery make me laugh and laugh and throw up in my mouth a little.
* The philosophe, not the singer.
** The singer, not the mother of God.
*** My metaphors are indeed that level of awful.
**** Before you say anything, I know. Dear sweet zombie Jesus on a TUNING FORK, I know.
"If I were a gerbil, I'd be dead."
Please note that this was a fairly unexpected thought, as prior to this gerbils had not exactly been on my mind. At all.
And I decided this morning that Voltaire* was the Madonna** of the Enlightenment.
Yeeeeeeah.
The other night I was on a bit of a nostalgic trip and went looking back at old journal entries (not just here, but on paper). This lead to two realizations:
1. As much as I like to whine about what a crap writer I am, I have actually come pretty far. Most notably, I am a hell of a lot more concise. Where I would once go on a tangent about how society is a lie and identity is an illusion, with lots of comparisons to dancing buttercups and seething cesspools of something vaguely sticky***, I now simply say "Man, the world sucks sometimes." Where I would once ramble about the futility of human emotion and the pain of romance and how no one will ever love me and I just don't CARE anymore, dammit, I now simply say "Gosh, I would really like to lose my virginity sometime." And where I would once listen to Limp Bizkit and write shitty, shitty poetry, I now simply...
Well. Uh. I don't listen to Limp Bizkit anymore!****
2. I really miss the music that I used to listen to in a desperate attempt to piss my parents off. (I was stuck in this babybat phase for a while and thought that Marilyn Manson lyrics perfectly described the turmoil of my soul. Really. Fucking. Embarrassing. I still do like Marilyn Manson, but just because he's fun.) I've gone almost a year without listening to Jack Off Jill. How have I survived?
Also, have discovered that the Bravery make me laugh and laugh and throw up in my mouth a little.
* The philosophe, not the singer.
** The singer, not the mother of God.
*** My metaphors are indeed that level of awful.
**** Before you say anything, I know. Dear sweet zombie Jesus on a TUNING FORK, I know.