"I do get lonely so many nights, spent soaking beans and listening to my ears; you are what you hear" - Dog by Emily Haines.

Car troubles, job, mother, aunt, brother, sorrow, books, music, chocolate. Turned up a little there at the end of that sentence. Still pear shaped.

You know what I enjoy? Fucking with people's heads. There's nothing better than getting a good old manip on. That's a lie. Maybe. I do like to play with things. Guess it's just the drama ho in me coming out. Mix that with an apathy jag and you get this blog post.

I'm sitting here wearing Mardi Gras beads around my wrist trying to think of shit to say. I have nothing to say and everything in the world to say. I just can't.

My coworker is talking to me about her 87 year old mother who hoards junk. She has a middle room full of it. My mother is the same. She has the same room in our house. She's taught me to be the same way. With everything. Everything. I won't go into details, but you can imagine the emotional baggage I drag around (watch for falling cliches).

I'll be pushing my way out of a cluttered middle room for the rest of my life. I think. I hope not. But I think. That's like the saddest, boringest metaphor I've ever come up with for this craptastic voyage of mine. I came up with another the other day I liked: like pushing sand away from the ocean floor. I often have dreams that involve petty little frustrations like that one.

I've decided to stop apologizing for what I write here. It's not like I'm unloading on a friend that's needs to be coddled just to get through my neuroses. I'll take a note from Mike Birbiglia and just make this my "secret, public journal".