how infrequent are these entries?

Well, it’s interesting the situation that I find myself in at this moment.  I am in canby, a ways away from where I live, and I’m sitting in some lawyers kitchen, typing into my diary while his son and I exchange techno (he is sitting across from me at his laptop).

I’ve been hurt and I’ve been blind, but I always thought that i could see if I decided to look inside.

He’s now showing me the best song EVER.

It’s alright so far.

So I need to just expel all this sentiment through my fingers and let the catharsis happen as fast and intense as it can.  because I’m alive, and I’m here and there’s nothing else, really.  Absolutely nothing else in this world that I have, just this existence and this life and these feelings and this smile and this body and these faces, and these shoes (for now).

What else is there, really?  Is there some greater sentiment that i could be feeling if I were to align my energy towards directing mankind’s altruism through the expression of my own?  Some grand "the secret shit"  or something like that.

BBut i’m so selfish and lazy and tired of all this disillusionment I foster and cultivate in my own mind.  it’s funny that the only reason I get so despondent is because I unconsciously choose to focus on it and amplify it through my own mood.

Now I’m showing him sasha – Xpander.

God damn, I love this song.

Anyway, so I sit here, sipping my coffee and feeling the caffeine.  and I’m smiling, and I’m chewing my gum.  It’s raining outside.  It’s a beautiful day.  I think I’m gonna go get more coffee.

and as uninspired and fragmented as this entry is, it still feels good to create.  to see the strangled fetus baby’s blood seep across the screen shortly after I give birth to it.,  My skill in the media of writing has largely been unexcercised recently, and I don’t like that.  I need to just think of this diary as my toilet paper, and I should just post whatever I poop out.

Rainbows and Butterflies.

Pretty things.