Have 11 Days Actually Passed? Shit.
Busy is good.
But the severe lack of anything other than craptastic writing is far from good. I mean, aren't I supposed to love writing? Then again, I suppose that can be an exception when you spread yourself microscopically thin over such a short period of time. Not to forget the never ending crises, half of which are self-inflicted, thus rendering the ever so often generic "you're a smart boy" half-truths people sometimes throw around at me. Or not. Whatever.
It's pretty fucked up when there are really, actually, a million and one things that I can't write about here. There's an entire imaginary archive of "shit I'm not supposed to write". I mean, that's just sad. An abundance of writing material for you to laugh at me about, ponder against the glow of the screeen in the dark, cringe in complete utter disgust (think 2girls1cup, necrophillia, and tree sex), and read about the ridiculous nonsense I write (or sometimes attempt to write too hard because I'm anal retentive) and shake your head so hard you'd sprain it.
I read through my past few posts, or rather a sorry excuse of a bunch of so-called "writings". I mean, shit. I am so ashamed of myself. Was I typing with my nose? Did I had a watergun loaded with horse piss aimed at my nostrils? Am I retarded? Are you stupid?
I mean really, what the fuck am I trying to say?
