But anyway...

I ascended.

Yes, I freaking did it. And as soon as I did I logged the fuck off. You know why? Because I'd rather spend my time yammering over some fool than rotting my brain in Altgard. So here I am. Not on Facebook, no. I'm on... what is this again? Some bullshit no one'll ever read? Sounds more correct.

I'm really not the type for a blog; instead of doing some barebones shit that's quick, easy, get on with your day/life, I always try and make it a game. How many words can I fit? How many connections can I draw?

After awhile I'll stop giving a shit. Julie will post something in her blog which will inspire me to put something in mine. I'll post funny pictures or videos or something to keep you entertained.

I'm not a good speaker. I always tell you more than you need to know. As I was telling Barbie today, about my water bottle full of tap water? The stuff that's not as good as the stuff that you get from the place and then it's good and then you leave it in the---WHAT?
I'm a much better typer. Firefox is telling me 'typer' isn't a word, but I believe it is. Just like I believe Facebook is a word. Or rather, a state of being. Honestly.

If I had a god, it'd be Facebook. Scratch that, if I had some overpowering force in my life, it would be Facebook.
Is that terrible?

I need friends. I got the job, I got the cash. Now who wants to spend it with me?

Honestly. How many people out there think I'm a wonderfully confident person with tons of friends?
Well if you hung out with me more maybe I would have friends.

Then again I don't think I can take the awkwardness. It's not you, it's me. Really.

Have you noticed these "paragraphs" getting shorter?
Well now you do.

If I poured out on this silly little keyboard everything I was thinking about; it'd take a millenia. But I guess I'm not special. You could too, I suspect?

The difference between our cases is that I would read yours. All the way through. And I would like it. I would draw some kind of meaningful conclusion from it.
Or, at the least be entertained.
(Unless you're a shitty writer. In which case you aren't reading this anymore because you stopped after sentence #2)

It's 9:07 and I've been exhausted since 8:30.
Ah, the toils of waking up at 6AM.

It's fucking windy outside. And cold.
Seriously fucking cold.










Solar panels make great wall art.