Forbidding to new arrivals

Damn it, when did I get so bad at posting on a regular fucking basis? There's no excuse for it.

What's been happening is: I've been writing in a notebook instead, which is a thing I feel inclined to do sometimes. It hurts my hand, as I tend to labor over my printing like a goddamn first grader, but it satisfies me to watch the tip of the pencil (a wooden pencil, no less) move along the lines on the paper, and how the pages fill.

I've never been good at finishing journals, or at writing in them often enough to make them feel, years later, like a book with myself at the plot's centre. Have I posted about this before? As a kid, I always filled the first few pages of each diary I was given and then lost interest. A few weeks later I'd want to write some more, but I couldn't use the neglected diary because then there'd be an unsightly gap between entries one and two. So I'd start a new one.

I have a fairly large box of these unfinished diaries. It alarms me to read them, as the entries are all so similar. Didn't I change at all between 12 and 15, for example? Is my life a watched pot? Et cetera, the alarm bells ring.

Now I've learned to ignore the unsightly gaps in my private journals as I write them, which is proof that people can grow emotionally and become richer as individuals, and that water eventually boils whether or not you stare at it, and then you can make tea. These days, I just keep writing (very fucking sporadically) in the same notebook until I reach the last page, and then I throw it in a box in my closet where it will remain until the great fire of 2012.

The journal I'm currently writing in was begun when I was twenty, and two days from now I'll be twenty-four. It sounds like crazy talk, I know, but it's true. My private (uncensored! un-spell-checked and edited!) journal is therefore a veritable time capsule of depressed and/or infatuated ravings. It's a powerful object, you see. One that could be used against me in the future. But do I toss it in the closet? No. I just read over it from time to time and want to shoot myself in the foot. Because that would make me feel like less of a clumsy fool than my entries from the previous year do, I'm telling you.

In any case. Now you know what I'm doing when I'm not doing it here, typing about caffeine and sleep deprivation and the state of my dog's brain. But that doesn't mean you should have to put up with zero updates for more than ten days at a time. Lord no. It just means I'd rather be telling my future (disgusted) self about the days events than you.

(By you I mean the Internet, which I see as a giant floating green head, ala The Wizard of Oz. I don't mean you you. You you are wonderful, and ought to be presented with some beautiful flowers of a not-overly smelly nature the next time we meet).

Moving on: I can't believe I'm turning twenty-four in two days. It's a fact that would probably un-man me if I had any man parts. What's even weirder about it, (if anything could be), is that I'll be in Portland, or at least headed there with Marian, I think, on the day itself. Portland. Where... um... there's free public transportation all through downtown! Does that not amplify the fucking weirdness? I think it does.

What's with the excessive swearing, me? I don't even know! I blame it on our culture as a whole!

...

I want donuts.