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shiny objects

Thursday, May 12, 2005


It's frustraiting. I would write more for you, gentle readers, but there isn't much about which to write - merely the dull hush before a screaming vacancy. I've lost my tongue. I've lost my pen. I've lost sleep. I've lost the energy to think things over. If only I would lose my appetite, I would feel good about losing so many things before I lose some more.

What does not kill us makes us stranger, I suppose. And I am getting downright strange. What new ritual will my subconcious devise to maintain the status quo in some unrelated faction of my life? I already check the microwave several times a day to see if I left something in it. (There's never anything in there.) I cannot say what precaution this action exercises, but I do know that it makes me feel better. But that doesn't really fucking matter, does it?

And there is so little to write about, when I consider the semester of work I've just completed. I went from academic probation to dean's list in four months. What else is there to say? Sleepless nights? Stimulants and heartache? Please . . .


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