Cinqo de Mayo, 2005

Writing. I like writing. For those that check up on me from time to time to find that I haven't been writing, my apologies, but if you're that curious, just call. Besides, I like writing even better when I have a direct audience, so it feels more like conversating than talking to myself about myself. I like to write to people who also like to write back. It's funny, my "voice" changes depending on who I'm "talking" to. With some people, I'm uber-sarcastic, others, I'm more poetic, but here, it's more of a sterilized version of myself. You may get some humor, some flowery descriptors, some philosophizing, a lot of complaining, and a bland mix of some of my other traits. Simply put, I don't think I'm as interesting when I'm talking to myself. I can crack some inside jokes, but nobody will get it, and nobody will laugh, you'd probably all just think I'm a sick fuck, which would make me laugh, so it's still worth it. Urine. That's not so much a joke as much as it is inside, but whatever, somebody might actually get that reference and chuckle. Do I feel like telling about my life in all its juicy detail? No. I don't feel like complaining right now. I don't feel like talking about the good stuff either. Why are you so darn curious? Who are you? What do you want with me? Just because I write something, and put it online, why do you have to read it? Are you that bored? This is me trying to imagine having an audience to make my writing experience more enjoyable, but I really don't know who reads this, hopefully nobody or everybody or somewhere in between, it really doesn't matter in the long run. I don't write this for you, it's for me, it just happens to be public. So yeah, sometimes, maybe a lot of times, I do censor myself. For one, I don't like to talk about other people without their permission, which is one reason why I can't have a secret online diary, and another reason why this may be uninteresting.

I need to get out of the city soon, not permanently, mind you, just a break. Back home in Buffalo, there were plenty of options for getting out of the city, all breathtakingly beautiful. Here, all I see are suburbs, and beyond the suburbs are cornfields. I may grow to like the big, enveloping fields of corn as they seem to be the only retreat until I find something better. Another roadtrip may be in order soon. The same old haunts never lost their appeal. New faces and places can't compete with memories iconicized to Eden-like stature, and some were literally Eden to begin with. When I'm thinking clearly, I don't pine for the trivial things like exact places, but for the more substantial things like youth, carefree innocence, and a sense of belonging. These things don't only happen in one place, they can be found again, well, the essence of youth can be felt again, as well as a relative innocence. Still, I'd like to know of a place to go skinny dippin or to have all-night, indoor bonfires with much music and merriment. Also, I need more friends whose idea of good times doesn't involve unconsciousness or mindless pursuit of substance, be it chemical or sexual. It all seems so vapid and empty to me, meaningless and without substance. So here I sit, more contented with myself than pretending to fit in with people who are nothing like me. There are those general similarities, but nothing clicks. I'm getting bitter and hating people again, anti-socialness is kicking in. Going out doesn't even occur to me as an option these days. I'll make my curtesy appearance to some events, then back home to kick it with myself, my guitar, some paint, and words. I used to like going out. Oops, I'm starting to complain. Damn. I'm also trying to curb my use of expletives, for those who don't know, I have the mouth of a trucker, not so much apparant in print, but I'd like my actual voice to match my typed voice more. Goodnight fuckers.