Okay so, motivation is somewhat a rarity these days for me. I have to rededicate myself to some of my more healthy hobbies I may have neglected. Perhaps my posture, chess, juggling, and the things numerous but odd I can do when I have free time; things other than watching the television at every possible moment. I have been good at that lately.

You know, it is the Olympics, so I do have an excuse.

Sorry, where was I?

Blasted technology, now days I don’t watch T.v. I listen to it while I engage in various activities that device has tethered me to, it is quite sad really. It is the most pathetic drug I have ever taken, and I am addicted. It is a little too much like cigarettes. If you ask me, and most likely you didn’t. I tend to interject my thoughts onto others quite frequently.

Do you think this exercise will also help swyping skills?

Yes that is correct I am typing again. That is what I am calling it right now. It isn’t really writing, it is more kind of like typing. I am typing whatever comes to my mind and like when I was in typing class, I am watching the word count slowly increase. I have discovered I am a little rusty at typing. I am finding it as difficult as if I was to form the sentence in a more politically
correct fashion.

Politics. Fuck where do I start? I think politics ought to be discussed more frequently paying no mind to feelings of others. They are just ideas, right? It is better to discuss our thoughts rather than act upon whim. Why should we accept the concept of having an offensive idea is bad? The idea is not inherently bad, it is the perception of the idea. We all know, well it is assumed we all know, I guess I mean it better be fucking taught to every child to respect life. Every aspect of life not only your life but also everyone that is around you, have respect for nature and the flora and fauna life forms that it gives us. Having a healthy respect is to take into consideration of what roles it may play in our existence, and to fear not only it's existences but the consequence if was to cease to exist. At that point, I think someone has reasonably assessed the value of said object.

Like me with this taco. I respect this taco. As I respect this beer I am drinking. Ohmygod, I respect this taco too. Remember folks, life is short to pass on the hot sauce. Spice is the variety of life. If you saw my belly right now, you would understand I know what I am talking about. Even though you might not know what I am talking about.

I don’t even know what I am talking about.

Fuck, I think it might be getting close to calling it a night.

Good night.

In a fit of cleanliness, I'd decided that day to put away all the loose paint supplies I'd left floating around my room, only to wind up absently painting little nothings onto various scraps of paper on my desk. When I'd run out of scraps, I painted on my arm.

Instead of painting a face or a detailed eye, I played until I painted what looked like a bleeding cut going down along my wrist. I admired if for a bit (I've no experience with body painting or stage makeup, so I was happy with how realistic it turned out) and then went to bed.

I fell asleep.

In the dream, I was on my room, in my bed, half awake. I was under the pillows and blankets-- as usual-- but all the same I knew that there was someone standing beside my bed. He was tall and it was dark and he was silhouetted black against the window, so I couldn't see him well. Nevermind that the me in my dream was still buried under the covers; the camera in my head was positioned at my doorway.

The arm I’d painted was sticking out from under the covers. He stood, arms crossed, and said,

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No,” said the dream me, muffled by the blankets. “I was just bored.”

He didn’t quite believe me. I could tell.

I don’t remember anything from the dream after that, but I do remember waking up and, feeling slightly guilty, washing my arm off in the bathroom sink.

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