Some Random Bullshit

Please ignore.


Who the hell am I? Sometimes I just feel I'm an enigma. Am I really born with the hunger of material wealth in blood, or was my clean slate just polluted with dollar signs? Am I supposed to be the intellectual who postulates about issues larger than this infested planet of ours? WHy the hell do I think so much in the first place? Why do I find my self analyzing the behaviour of elevators and how to improve the embedded software when I'm just waiting for my bloody turn to come? Why did I even sit down and try to make sense of everything by writing it out? I should be unpacking my suitcases and get my shit in order while I wait for my groceries to be delivered, but no I must write a whole bunch of bullshit to satisfy my "soul". Whatever that means.

I have no training in writing, other than the advice dispensed from my English teachers which I long discarded. I attempt to write freely and just let it flow. I can't seem to get out of first-person; before I write from another's perspective I must understand and master my own. Most people don't do that in their lifetimes, so that will atleast save the public from my rudimentary musings hypothesizing about what it being someone else is like.

1:45 am

Im sipping a box of fruit punch that looks like it belongs in an elementary school cafteria, rather than a grown man's apartment. Its a testament to my legendary laziness, since I can't be bothered to get a half-gallon carton which I would have to actually pour into a glass. Thievery Corporation plays in the background as I wait for the sandman to come and put me out of my misery. Problem is that before the he usually comes, Mary Jane comes clears the path for him, and tonight it seems he'll have do all the work himself.

Thom Yorke comes on. Is there any voice more depressing than his? Don't get me wrong, I love Radiohead, but sometimes its makes me want to turn into one of those housewives who lock themselves into their room and disappear under the covers when their husband of 15 years forgets her birthday (inspired by Lois from Malcolm in the Middle). Its a live recording, so the applause at the song's conclusion only furthers my hunch that the crowd is comprised of those very same housewives - only the highly depressed could have been lifted by that reprisal.

Dre's "The Roach" comes on and taunts me. I can't take it anymore. Time to stare at the ceiling until it blends into oblivion.