March 12, 2003 :: 11:20 p.m.
fate is not just whose cooking smells good
Diaryland is doing a server moving thingy right now, so I�m typing this is Word. I don�t really like writing stuff in Word � it�s too fancy. I used to write in WordPad, back when I wrote anything at all. While the lack of a spell-check feature is somewhat annoying, the whole plain and simple thing is part of the appeal. All the little icons and options in Word are distracting when you�re trying to goad your mind into letting the words come. And I�m never all that much in need of the spell-check anyway, because for all my sever shortcomings I�m a very good speller. Not that any of that matters anymore, what with any and all writing ability that I may have once possessed being sucked out of my soul like dust bunnies coming face-to-face with a Hoover.
I�ve been feeling the urge to write again lately, though. But I haven�t been. None of my environments are correct for it. It�s all about the atmosphere with me, you see. If my surroundings aren�t conducive to creativity, all the great ideas in the world could filter into my brain and nothing would happen. And neither a cramped cinderblock dorm room nor a half-painted, box-filled bedroom nor the cluttered dining room in which I am currently stationed could even remotely be considered creativity conducive environments. So I�m stuck with all these things floating around my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull and into one another, coalescing and breaking apart until eventually they all just vanish much more quickly than they appeared. It�s endlessly frustrating. Frustration seems to go hand-in-hand with creativity when it comes to little old me � two phenomenon that are in no way complimentary butting heads like angry rams. The frustration always wins, though. It�s got bigger horns, I suppose, and therein lies the root of every problem in my life. I�m not a fighter. I�m very easily deterred from my goals. It�s always been easier to just let it go and sit in a corner, fretting about the next insignificant-cum-insurmountable challenge that I�ll have to run away from next.
In that same vein, I took TheSpark.com�s Death Test. I am scheduled to die on August 29, 2055, at the age of 72. I am most likely to die from cancer and suicide. Isn�t that cheerful? Telling, though. There�s a history of cancer in my family. There�s a also a history of diabetes, epilepsy, heart attack, stroke, obesity, violence, alcoholism, drug abuse, and a few things that no power on this earth could make me tell anyone about, but that�s just icing on the cake, I guess. As far as I know there�s never been any suicide, but I�d be lying if I said I�ve never considered it. Hell, I think about it all the time. When one hates oneself and everyone else, one tends to lose sight of all the happy, magical things that make life worth living. I don�t think I�d ever actually do it, though, if only because I�m too indecisive to make such a final decision. Although I suppose that once I was dead I wouldn�t have much of a chance to regret it.
Morbid subject. Sorry. I�m feeling somewhat philosophical tonight, if it�s even possible for my to feel such a thing. I hate philosophy. I�ve never given it much of a chance, granted, but blind, uninformed hatred is apparently considered a basic human right, so I make no excuses for it. Perhaps it would be better to say that I�m feeling thoughtful, or nostalgic in a way that includes both the present and the future. I wish I had brought my watercolors home with me, because I feel like splashing watery pigment onto really expensive paper and coming up with nothing short of a horrible mess that will immediately be thrown away. I didn�t even bring my teensy little black markers, so I can�t draw the things I want to. It�s very depressing to realize that everything I left at school I should have brought home, and vice versa. My packing skills get two very droopy thumbs down.
Ger. I�ve been trying to put off making a trip to the bathroom for the last hour and a half, but now it appears to have been elevated to emergency status. Urine waits for no woman.
Ciao.
edited 1:01 a.m. Diaryland is still down, but I just had to add a little update to this. Giles is being a very cute little kitty. He has this catnip mouse that he carries around in his mouth from room to room, and just now he picked it up and took it into the kitchen for a round of Bat the Mouse. He�s also being very loud, meowing constantly. My mom thinks it�s because he�s sad and wants to go outside. I hope that�s not the case, but I could understand if it was.
Aww, he just came trotting back in with the mouse in his mouth. That�s seriously the cutest thing ever � I really need a picture of it. He was also trying to get into a container of cat treats that�s sitting in the living room by biting at the lid. Sorry, Giles. Some tasks really do require opposable thumbs.
It�s freezing in here and I don�t have the faintest idea where the thermostat is. Grrr, argh.
edited 1:46 a.m. Diaryland = still down. Every time I try it, the �check back� time is pushed up a few hours. Annoying. Right now it says to check back at 3 or 4 a.m., so this entry will definitely not get posted tonight. This morning. Whenever.
I should not be reading ghost stories at 1:46 in the morning. I should especially not be reading ghost stories at 1:46 in the morning while sitting alone in a darkened house with my back to several bare windows. I am terrified of the dark, and ghost stories freak me out just as much as serial killer profiles, and I�m paranoid. I�ve spooked myself so badly that I�m honestly afraid to go upstairs to my room. Dammit. See? Yet another reason why I need a live-in Adam.
back & forth
Wait, there's more!
I like pina coladas - March 30, 2005
must... finish... projects... - March 22, 2005
Mr. Postman delivers the good stuff - March 18, 2005
when everything is bad - March 16, 2005
of fruits and menstruation - March 15, 2005