Thursday, December 25, 2003
I've been up since 4:00 am.
I really don't have much to write. Christmas was a blast, even at four in the morning. It is still dark out. I want to go out and dance in the streets while throwing confetti. Anyway, Matt has crept back into bed, mother is cleaning up torn pieces of pretty paper, father is lost in his garage, Jenn has left to aid those not lucky enough to spend Christmas at home, and Mike has returned to his slumbering home.
The End.
And Happy Holidays.
I really don't have much to write. Christmas was a blast, even at four in the morning. It is still dark out. I want to go out and dance in the streets while throwing confetti. Anyway, Matt has crept back into bed, mother is cleaning up torn pieces of pretty paper, father is lost in his garage, Jenn has left to aid those not lucky enough to spend Christmas at home, and Mike has returned to his slumbering home.
The End.
And Happy Holidays.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Today's breakfast at Ho, Ho, Ho's involved Irish gangsters and very bland scrambled eggs.
...I would continue on with my fairy tale-like morning, but my mind seems to be focused on other things. I was reading the writings of another fellow blogger, and the question of "Why do I write in this blog?" seemed to be asked over and over again in my head. I mean, what's the point? I'm sure this is all out of laziness, and for some reason things seem to flow more freely from my fingertips when I am typing, rather than writing. But why is it that I am so easy going about plastering my thoughts across the internet for all eyes to see? What do you lurkers get out of reading this? I mean you can read all you want, but what does it mean to you? It's like analyzing a poem or novel..or WHATEVER, you can interpret all you want, but you will never fully understand. I don't enjoy the thought of people tearing apart my words to fit their meaningless interpretation of my pathetically written life. STOP READING THIS! You'll never understand!!!!
..I suppose I should ask myself the same question, why do I read the online journals of others? I guess at times the life of others fills the void in my life, which lasts about 5 minutes, but it's as if....well, it's hard to explain. I am like a leech. Though other times, it's more of a way to connect with others, to have some sort of communication with them which lacks in the outside world.
...I should just shut up right now. Perhaps I should continue on about the Irish gangsters, who were fascinating beyond belief. Well, I am exaggerating, and they really weren't Irish gangsters, but we can pretend, can't we? I think for the rest of the week I'll just remain silent...again. It never works.
Well, I have lost interest in actually fulfilling the purpose of writing in here. I suppose I'll scribble down my leftovers in my leather bounded journal. Oooh aah.
...I would continue on with my fairy tale-like morning, but my mind seems to be focused on other things. I was reading the writings of another fellow blogger, and the question of "Why do I write in this blog?" seemed to be asked over and over again in my head. I mean, what's the point? I'm sure this is all out of laziness, and for some reason things seem to flow more freely from my fingertips when I am typing, rather than writing. But why is it that I am so easy going about plastering my thoughts across the internet for all eyes to see? What do you lurkers get out of reading this? I mean you can read all you want, but what does it mean to you? It's like analyzing a poem or novel..or WHATEVER, you can interpret all you want, but you will never fully understand. I don't enjoy the thought of people tearing apart my words to fit their meaningless interpretation of my pathetically written life. STOP READING THIS! You'll never understand!!!!
..I suppose I should ask myself the same question, why do I read the online journals of others? I guess at times the life of others fills the void in my life, which lasts about 5 minutes, but it's as if....well, it's hard to explain. I am like a leech. Though other times, it's more of a way to connect with others, to have some sort of communication with them which lacks in the outside world.
...I should just shut up right now. Perhaps I should continue on about the Irish gangsters, who were fascinating beyond belief. Well, I am exaggerating, and they really weren't Irish gangsters, but we can pretend, can't we? I think for the rest of the week I'll just remain silent...again. It never works.
Well, I have lost interest in actually fulfilling the purpose of writing in here. I suppose I'll scribble down my leftovers in my leather bounded journal. Oooh aah.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
....
zzzzz
zzzzz
Saturday, December 06, 2003
So I did travel out into the field, and towards the wonderful, climeable tree. I kept my head down, watching my feet sink into the snow, making sure I don't fall through and lose myself. My boots filled with snow and my ankles were numb by the time I reached the tree. It's so comfortable to sit up in, and I watched out for any of the mysterious footprints, I saw while walking, to be revealed. But no such thing had happened during my time out there. Though I did spot a squirrel off in the distance playing behind the trees. I love being outside, and the thought of going back inside, into the warmth, is somewhat tiresome. You become so accustomed to the cold, and the snow melting in your shoes. Your legs become numb that you don't even notice the wetness of the bottom of your pants anymore. Once you go back inside, this heavy weight descends over your body. You become sticky and wet. Everything is uncomfortable and you don't even want to move. Thank goodness for herbal tea, and dryers.
I become so light headed when I am outside.
Anyway, I have once again avoided my essay, which I am not too thrilled about, but it has to be finished as a seminar follows along with it. Curses!
I become so light headed when I am outside.
Anyway, I have once again avoided my essay, which I am not too thrilled about, but it has to be finished as a seminar follows along with it. Curses!
