Monday, November 17, 2003

I don't quite think as much as I used to. Of course, I "think" in the conventional sense, but not like before. Gone are the days when words just flowed through my fingertips like water through a drain. Now, it's like a muddy trudge down memory lane: "I wrote that?! That was me?! Amazing!"

As of present, I hesitate to write what is clogging my mind. But here it is: I've become boring.

I tend to blather on with no end in sight. Witticisms no longer pepper my sentences. And excitement has become the exception rather than the norm.

My recent essays have become "dry". I've become my own worst nightmare as self-appointed "boundaries" are set up for the teachers I write for. This has transcended into my personal life. Anyone can be a sophisticate. All it takes is a talent for imitation and you have yourself a pretentious-sounding piece of crap-o-rama. The kind that contains words used to whisk and scramble your brain into a morning-omelette before sending in razor-sharp letters to rip your sense of humour to shreds:

"So ... what are you trying to say here?"

"That she flashed her boobs for the strip joint regulars."

"Okay ... get rid of 'the panel of reproductively-challenged clientele'. Yes, you've got it. Now erase 'unveiled were her two scoops of Amish-churned butter pecan solidified dairy nectar'."

Ah, I'm rambling again. Age is setting in and I don't like it one bit. I'm old and gross and my breasts will soon reach my Choos (*fingers crossed*). Fruitless and barren, these are dark times for me.

Especially after being informed that choking an object of quasi-quasi-infatuation actually lowers my chances of calling upon the intended mate. Go figure.

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