Irate.

They say I'm missing out. But honestly, I can't say that I care. I'm done trying for the time being. I don't know how much farther I can convince myself that anything more than acquaintance is a necessity. Too much time wasted. You've shown me that all too well.

Pains.

I have discovered the non-drug cure for headaches. Stay up until five in the morning. Though, I suppose logic may assume further aggravation to the throbbing (which, indeed, was the case, initially). But oh well. As for side effects, I need only to warn of tiredness and the likelihood of wearing one's jacket in its reverse at 7:30 in the morning.

Well, we were reading today. They tell them to. Therefore, we do. About crocodiles. I have a hard time believing that a single, particular crocodile was credited with the consumption of roughly four hundred human beings. (You'd think they'd have done something by now). Evidently, I'd assume, it's an issue with the less inhabited environments. Tempt nature with their red cloths of sheer foolishness. Or otherwise lack of precaution. Or otherwise chance. Probably the latter of the three. I guess, an alternate solution for all the impending (and existing) problems on this planet, Thomas Malthus? Sorry.. that was distasteful for me to say. But I had to.

Oh, and just on a side note. When concocting hypothetical situations to define "will" (the noun), one may further apply the situation by pointing to the girl to one's left and asking everyone to assume that "if her parents died..."

Watched Arrested Development last night. I'll just say, for now, that the irony and humor through miscalculations and misunderstandings are absolutely phenomenal. And, certainly, the building of the plot (repetition and association and lively consistencies), appeal to pop culture, and the lot of it.

Tired.

Bothersome.

My jaw is shifting again. It is quite difficult to talk without clamping on random protrusions of stratified squamous epithelium. Necessitating one to commit self-sacrifice for the sake of phonetics. Ex. Haust. Exhaust. Ig. Loo. Igloo. Au. Gust. August. F. Ault. Fault. This is all your fault. And I am also glad that I know, at least the generalities of, operating a timer. It is, after all, a most complex process. And a most crucial skill. One must always know how to push the right buttons.

Well, we mostly read on and off today. And he said something about a girl. Or a thing. I can't remember. Who had surgery. Done by aliens. And the souls exchanged. And the thing fell in love with the girl's boyfriend. Even though it really was the girl. And then they found a body for the alien. And then it was happy. Not a far cry from the meditations and encounters of Raskolnikov. Not at all.

We also had characteristically-summer weather. Not a cloud in the sky. Enjoy it while it lasts. That is all for now.

Pilferers.

I guess you could say I've taken to an envy (once again). And once again, of photographers. Who can (quite literally, I guess) single-handedly snatch the living things of the living moments (even with the inanimate)--artifacts, I suppose, to be delegated to blogs and professional websites and large canvas prints and so on and so forth. Even the repulsive is made righteous. Or maybe I just enjoy jesting with the willingly deceived. Are visual artists thieves of what already is?

I'm out of place. Well, my regards to today. The bottom line is, I feel unclean. I feel very unclean. Compulsiveness may be the root cause. And an indirect cause of an already premature widdling away of the keys to that awe-inspired, golden triangle of self-actualization. Who knows where it'll get you.

I've washed my hands often today. And I've probably wasted all too many paper towels. Yes, I have. Indeed, and all the while watching a documentary on a sort-of anti-consumerism, environmentalist, go green! experiment. I'm not too sure how I feel yet. Generally.

I'm just getting by again. Just barely. I don't know if I like it or not. Trying not to care about people. Apathy might be the word for it. I constantly find myself subjected to an unmeasurable bit of guilt, to push the externally in-reaching to the recesses of a bitter indifference. I don't know if I'd call it indifference, actually. Perhaps just a distance. Maybe happiness is nothing. And the very opposite of that is the only thing that we have by which to weigh it.

In various manners, I think I've been quite reminded of what I've been, for quite some time, trying to elude. It's too much, I have reason to believe, for me to be normal with human contact, to regard it as an actual need. We're too much inclined to translate supposed needs into excuses. Or perhaps I am asking too much. I don't know. But I'll risk that much (to be denied the satisfaction). We'll see.

Anyhow, I am in high doubts, now, that food or villainous little children or my new Twilight-Meyers-Harry Potter consumed friend or waking up at seven tomorrow will fill this transient happiness. Sadness. Emptiness. Whichever it is. It's always manifested again in such a way that it's the same thing by a different mechanism. Well, kind of anyway.

Now, to the existence and prevalence of common sense.

What is this.

I am inferior to my own unconscious demands. This is sad.

The question is,
what are the limits of being unalive?

Very Tired.

I'm used to it. And so it is. Regretfully so (and fortunately and happily so), I do consider myself incapable of closeness (of any sorts). It all reminds me of the same circumstances, and I'd rather not revisit.

It is with that, I realize, I ought not to have extended (and casually so, with that) such careless an invitation. A most injudicious decision. One should never (and never strive to) be so happy, so excessively happy. We never are.

Maybe.

Today, sometime between the hours of eight and eleven forty-five, I indulged in the last few words of a stunningly brilliant comedy/play. Stunningly brilliant. Insurmountable wit. Ingenious plot. If only bunburying were an acceptable profession nowadays.

Well, now I am sad. Very sad, indeed.

Satisfied.

That was anything but a statement.

I'm not certain of all too many things. But I'm too certain about nothing at all. If nothing is anything? If nothing is something, anyway?

I'd like to think myself capable. I'd like to think myself liberated. Liberated, I suppose, from tendency. Perhaps I'm asking too much, though I believe I've asked myself of too little. It's not, necessarily, that I'm opposed.

But I want control. I'd like to think myself capable. Capable of doing all but appealing to the stratum of the merely physical. Perhaps I am making a mistake. Perhaps I am asking too much of what is after all, merely, a human calling. Perhaps I'm not asking too much but, in all, demanding too much, stretching too far. If I so much as deprive myself of closeness and warmth, then I suppose I'll live with it, for now.

Is it too much a sacrifice to be certain?

The things I do.

I'm incredibly tired. I'm not sure what to say. I'm not sure I want to say anything. I'm not sure I have anything to say. And that is all that I have to say.

The halo effect. And mere exposure and primacy. Attributions. Now I know why. But, only, maybe.

I hate you. I sound like an overbearing what's it called. But I hate you, I do. And I hate that you remind me of so many things I want to remember, if the spare aspects were not associated with you. Because I hate you.

I'm still incredibly tired. And I have nothing to say. It just doesn't get any better, does it? And that is all.

Love "is an unnecessary diversion." I've been spelling unnecessary wrong all this time, I've just realized. Oh, technology. But love means nothing. Nothing does, anyway? And I don't mind.

Why do I bother.