::Imbroglio

toplayalongathome:hoorayformebadreligion

There are not enough hours in the day for me to do all that I am required to do, and still live.

By that, I do not mean breathing.

I rent a dwelling, and leave it empty that I might work to pay for it. I pay for cable television, and leave it unwatched that I might work to pay for it. I buy groceries, and leave them uncooked because I am out all the time — away from my empty dwelling — and must settle for Burger King.

Gaaaah.

Perhaps I’ve been reading too many dystopian novels. That’s all.

I’ve been hungering to write. Fiercely. To just bugger off of everything I know, go hide out in a commune for a year, and type and type and type and type and type and type. Mmmmmm!

I don’t think everyone would appreciate me disappearing for a year, though.

The Want to write was really bad the other night. It was almost a physical thing. Almost like being indescribably smitten with physical lust — except in the mind instead of the crotch. I guess my imagination was kneeling at the foot of the bed with an erection and a goofy grin, begging me to peel off a few hours to satisfy it.

On second thought, can we change that metaphor and make my imagination a girl? Thanks. Brr.

That digression aside — I wonder if this sense of Want will still be there when I get out of school. That’s a long time from now. It’s so frustrating to know that my spare time is pretty much Booked for the next ten months or so.

I haven’t registered for classes yet. I dunno if that’s passive-aggressive fear of school, procrastination, or just being too damned busy? Gotta quit lying to myself about all that.

Right now I’m not feeling terribly poetic. You may have noticed. I feel shallow and rather foolish, for no particular reason. Just one of those days where I’m feeling like an average, everyday horny idiot without a lot of things to show for himself.

Maybe I’ll help an old lady across the street on my way home, later this morning. Or cure cancer or something.

Did I tell you I almost lost some toes at work last night? Oh, I didn’t. My foot got crushed by several tons of cargo so roughly that it crimped in the steel toe on my boot. Good thing the cap did what it was supposed to, and held long enough for me to get out of there. Just a bruised-up toe and a bruised-up ego… I was standing where I shouldn’t have been.

I want more important things to write about. I don’t feel terribly entertaining today — and since I started writing on the computer (way back before the Web) I’ve been writing for an audience in addition to myself. If that weren’t true, my diary would be on Private, wouldn’t it? Mmm. So in addition to writing for my own mental and emotional benefit, and chronicling a few of the things that happen, I also want to be interesting. … So what are you interested in? I’m feeling exhibitionistic. All topics are open. Except for the ones I’ve been lying about all along, of course.