blink, blink, blink

i have been at this blank page for almost thirty minutes now and i still don’t know what to write about.

try as i may, i want to absolutely, positively, diligently and patiently write about ebery little thing on my mind right now. but as hypertext goes, my fingers could barely keep up. hat then results is a hodge-podge of unintelligible, grammatically and politically incorrect groups of words and letters passing themselves off as sentences or at the very rarest of occassions, whole patches of less-than-amazing-moreover-uninspired thought.

take a breath.

and then that fine little vertical line blinks at me again: the agony, the anguish, the morbid anticipation of what i’m going to cook up next, given the limited pretexts and incoherent subtexts in my mind and the limited experience time and society affords me with every single wasted breath.

it’s like water slowly dripping over the top of your head…

drip…

drip…

drip…

the languid monotony is astoundingly irritating, yet mesmerizing in a parallel universe or two.

drip…

drip…

drip…

(wait, i have to pull up an online dictionary. i’m about to throw up…)

okay. take a very deep breath.

chemical brothers calm the senses like an overdose of valium shoved up your ears.

stoic: adj.: One who is seemingly indifferent to or unaffected by joy, grief, pleasure, or pain.
and moving on, i am currently listening to hootie and the blowfish who, strange enough, sounds so country, you’d think it was america. did you know: there are over 20 varieties of country music? so many music varieties, only two ears!

it’s so tiring to muse over myself anymore. i wish i had a legit hobby or a formally recognized fanaticism. i wish i had something to go wild over, to rave about for at least 4 hours a day, something to fill in the gaps of non-thought, something to push me to the limits of my comfort zone both socially and financially, something to splurge over (shoes don’t count, irog), something that could force me to once and for all accept all fault and humiliation and muster the courage and gumption to actually include a fan club of some sort into my seemingly suddenly blank itenerary that i may rarely even follow, if ever, in my life i do have one.

amazingly, the quarter-pounder i had over three hours ago is holding up nicely. i’m not hungry at all. just a weird thirst. thirst. that’s a symptom of rabies, ain’t it? weird unquenchable thirst, but a striking fear of water. i might as well be possessed. now THAT would have been exciting.

oh, here’s a thought:
i got to view certain parts of the movie the exorcism of emily rose. (i hyper-DVD-ed it. you know, you fast forward to the juicy parts and just skip all those that really matter to the story; which would have been more or less summarized into a sentence with 150 characters or less)

when push comes to shove….

listening to push by matchbox twenty. this song always gets to me, well actually most of matchbox twenty songs get to me like crap. i wish i have had the chance to sing in such a band, to chant such deep, well, strike out deep, try striking lyrics and chords. that’s one of my frustrations in life: i’m musically inept. well strike out musically, just plain inept. my ineptitude amazes even my irog. ineptitude becomes me in the most unexpexted situations and when it’s totally uncalled for.

for my irog:
your body is a wonderland.

i’m at a loss. for words. for everything. for meaning. for purpose. and fuck it, jessica simpson is playing, oh, sorry. that was just a riff. it’s actually john mellencamp, thank heavens…

blink, blink, blink…

i feel like dancing. dancing with my irog. i remember that night that we went to malate. that was fun. dancing. in the dark. with my irog. body wonderland…

i’m tired.

aren’t you?

blink.

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