I am stomping around the interwebz, updating every glazecovered account around. Perhaps I have too many...

When writing, everyone is a genius. Deep thoughts, insightful ideas, raw talent waiting to be discovered and turned into a bestseller that no one remembers three years past.

I'm not jaded, I'm observant.

I am being weaved by...fuck, life? Little strips of events, jobs, responsibilities, consequences, conversations about death and randomly read stories about suicide, walks through cemeteries and TV shows about serial killers all lay one upon another to create the fabric upon which I then needlepoint my existence. How's that for the most cliched analogy of the myspace-blog era?

I'm not pretentious, I'm pensive.

I buy a new pack of cigarettes as soon as I'm halfway through the old one. I need to support my slow suicide with a steady stream of nicotine. Chain-smoking is the best thing that's happened to international literature and drinking is the worst.

I'm not a hypocrite, I'm opinionated.

Sometimes I hate people. Sometimes I feel a strong urge to go out and have a long-winded conversation with the first person I see. I'll start talking when the urge strikes - when I'm outside in the rain huddling with other poor smokers whose habit chases them onto the streets, when I'm dead tired in the middle of an enthusiastic morning on a college campus, when I'm in elevator full of people all of whom are trying their best to get through the 20 awkward seconds of silence.

I am not moody. I am unpredictable.

Shut up.

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