Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Grumpy McGrumperson

I can't write. I've stared at this blank space for almost a half an hour trying to come up with a good start and have come up with nothing. I hate my writing. I read it and its so awful it makes me gag. I'm not speaking specifically about my blog, just of my writing in general. I hate it. I really do. I find it trite, cliche, and above all else, extremly superficial. And not in a good Andy Warhol, Jasper Johns "clever" superficiality sort of way - just devoid of meaning or real interesting content (which you might feel about Warhol and Johns to begin with, but still, you get my point).

The whole kit and kaboodle, it really sickens me that I could have once thought it any good. The by product of this distaste with my work (which creeps up every six months or so) is utter self-loathing that I've wasted so much of my time on this garbage. And it isn't just any self-loathing, it's the worst kind: the pitying, self-indulgent, needy, annoying, self-loathing.

Anyway, it's all garbage, and I can't get anything out right. Even now, as I type I want to go back and rewrite this post, only I know that it won't be any better, no matter how hard I try.

So boo this, I'm done until I'm not.

Friday, February 02, 2007


I am the epitome of lame. I've been home for four days after visiting Syracuse (which was freaking freezing) and I just now started doing my laundry. Why the wait, you may ask. Was it laziness (well, yes... but that's not the answer I'm really going for right now so I'm gonna say:)? No. Was it because my clothes smelled like J_ after absorbing the general smell from being in her room for five days, and I didn't want to wash it off? Yes.

I'm so freaking lame I hate myself right now.

Carry on then, nothing more to see here... not even any dignity.