But hell, I want to move on to the unfulfilled wet dream of every young wordsmith: the novel. It grew from an unexpected place, which is an all too familiar phrase for people above the age of 50 and my attempt at a transition sentence. Cpttylor and I always wanted to design game software, coming up with what we thought was thought-provoking, entertaining, the kind of work that stayed with you. Through the heaving mire of morbidly obese mental sonatas, we launched ourselves into the concrete walls of progress. Abusive high velocity mind fuckers that we are (or that I am, at least), we unearthed some forgotten lovedust to tantalize. A binary arena to the promised land. More worthless and overly descriptive, wordy sentences adding detail to a point you already got.

From these story arcs, outlines, and various characters, I want to try writing something that isn't a filthy mockery of what I was thinking. I think I've improved a little through writing this journal. I still don't like what I write usually, but like an abusive partner I just leave it for others to sort out and eventually pass judgment on.

I'm feeling edgy lately. The world is wonderful, none of my friends have decided to kill themselves this week...yet, only a few have been condescending, audaciously self-indulgent assholes recently (no, not you), and I have my special head-cushioning fluffy contour pillow again. I missed my fluffy pillow so much!

When life has no obvious flaws, you want to find something in it to improve on, no matter how miniscule. For me I want to write more than what I have been. There isn't any edge to it, there's no blood on either your side or mine. To me, writing should be like cutting open your own stomach, not taking a piss. And it's just that easy and relieving for me..and it bugs the fuck out of me to no end.

I want to self-indulge. Sometimes I just like expressing or feeling pain, y'know? I mean, how often have any one of us written something that was a tad more depressing, painful, etc. so that we could get some attention or sympathy? And when I really reach deep down and try to flesh out something that I see inside and throw it straight at you..it's that acidic bile that eats through you, scars you, makes you remember. Pleasant, unpleasant..it wouldn't be there if it didn't hold some value. Things without value bother me. For me, false sentiment ignites a deep, seathing hatred, usually brought out by e-cards depicting paganistic christian bunny rabbits informing me that Thanksgiving is coming and I need to start smiling at people I despise again.

There are some times where you can't say anything. Where you can never say anything, just smile and giggle. I'd like to share with you my "some times":

Sometimes I don't want to talk to you,

Sometimes I don't want to listen to the same story you told me last year of why you slit your wrists in some pretty pattern and how much you hate people especially your family,

Sometimes I pretend I give a fuck so you'll shut up,

Sometimes you make me cry at how utterly wonderful a human-being you are,

Sometimes everything you stand for makes me burst out in uncontrollable fits of laughter and rage depending on my mood,

Sometimes your smile makes me want you dead,

Sometimes I want to say I love you but you're too self-absorbed in your pain to understand a word I'm saying,

Sometimes you never pay attention when it really would have counted,

Sometimes you look at me in abject horror when I decide your conception of me needs a reality check,

Sometimes I want to scream at you for failing like I've seen tens of other people fail,

Sometimes I'd love to just sit down and talk to you,

Sometimes I'd love it if you listened to me instead of skipping on to a different subject as if I were a fucking moron and didn't notice you're avoiding yourself...again,

Sometimes...just sometimes...listen and just listen.

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