The latter half of a monday is the killing half.

There should be an accent...

PART DEUX (Yeah, I like faux-french. Hence my remarkable usage of the word faux.)

Someone once told someone who told me less is more.

Now it seems to me that seems a bit situational. If you’re overdosing on heroin, obviously less would have been just a bit more healthy for you. I’m not sure if that’s what the someone meant, but it’s the way I see it.
Because whenever I get more of what I want, my life is proportionally better. Less of what I want: my life gets proportionally worse.

I hate semantics. Which is all I seem to discuss.

I’m going to start writing a book. Dunno how, considering I am almost certainly incapable of writing in the third person. (It’s not natural, I tell you.) But I’m going to try. And then publish my work. And watch in despair as no-one buys the two copies sitting on the shelf in your local bookstore.

I bet if I cried on a webcam people would like me more.

I’ll be updating this blog tri-weekly. (No, not every three weeks, that would be semi-monthly, as in once or twice a month. You are fucking stupid.) So probably Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. For future reference, I’m not doing this for anyone. Because there’s no anyone who reads this, to my knowledge.
Maybe I’ll get a cute Internet stalker. At least that would make life a bit more interesting.
Whoever’s reading this (probably myself) should send me presents. They help my self-esteem and overall quality of life.

I could probably turn a better profit making shirts on the Internet than I could being a writer with an English major saying: “I am most unquestionably intellectual, hence my remarkable usage of the word ‘irascible’.”

Fuck, now I’m just as bad as those tools who sit at their computer making fun of English majors.

There should be an accent over the e in cafe. But there isn't.

If there's one thing I know, it's that I haven't had enough sleep.

Getting up in the morning takes more effort than it should. Really. I have to threaten myself to convince my legs to slide out of bed. I'm sure there should be an easier way.

There's a rolling sensation in my gut, like two boxing prizefighters with a long grudge decided so say "Fuck it", and go all out. Or maybe I'm hungry. I won't know until I feast later on today.

I decided my friends weren't good for my health, and cut about half of them out of my life so that I don't become so frustrated I die of an emotional heart attack. Hormones drive teenagers insane. Which is only several levels of fucked up because we build the foundations of our life during these years. Great, isn't it?

I noticed the vending machines in the school's cafeteria are the same models that were used in prisons ten years ago.

Being broke makes you think that you'd be better off with money. Well, you're probably right. But you'd still have some amount of problems that would distress you. (If you have a disposable income, please give me a donation. After all, the world doesn't need another starving writer, does it? I'm sure a well-fed writer dining on corruption and the treatments of the "better" life probably writes so much more eloquently than me.

Probably.

Maybe I'll find out what other starving writers think when I move to California next spring. I might find other people to bitch about life with me.

That fire in your eyes tells me something you don't know about yourself.

Not popular. I don't want to be popular. Beyond the fact that it goes against the law of indie conservation (The less popular something is, the better it is. For scientists, x= (1/y); x being ratio of awesomeness, y = amount of people who know about it. x being 1 is means it's either the coolest thing in the world no-one knows about, or it's shit. Or both.) but more because I wouldn't know how to deal with the incredible pressure being popular brings.

Not that I'll ever be popular. But maybe over time, over the course of thousands of years, I might become respected by at least five people. Or three.
Fuck, maybe I should start a webcomic. Everyone likes a webcomic.
These days, good writing isn't hard to come by. Great writing is. I can't do either, so I'm probably screwed.

This Mountain Dew Voltage tastes like melted down gummi bears.
Which makes me wonder. Why the fuck do we colour our beverages? Blue soda. Purple juice. It's not healthy, or sane by any means. Does it appeal to you? Does it make it better than anything else you could pick? Does it enhance your drinking experience?

I don't know, but it tastes good (read: delicious).

So I'm wondering why I'm here at a party and my friend is walking and talking (unintentionally mind you) like Johnny Depp playing Jack Sparrow.
It's interesting. Kind of fun. But I'm simultaneously hating myself for even being here.

Beer is disgusting, liquor is terrible until you're drunk, being drunk is exciting.
Except when you're sober, and you realize (perhaps the morning after) that everyone else being drunk is kinda... fucking stupid. Or incredibly entertaining. It all really depends on what your personality boils down to.

"How are you doing?"
I'm just fine.

You have your hunger, I have mine. This blog (read: inelegant diary) isn't about anything in particular, just something I can put down, like a butterfly nailed on a display.

I think I'll smoke a cigarette. I want something to be addicted to.