There's just something about feeling like your close to where you need to be.

Interesting things are afoot, so beware.

It's fucking ridiculous that my stomach is turning this much from someone that I already knew I'd never see or know again. But somehow I'm feeling all those things she left me with. It's settled, she must be a wizard of some sort.

In other news: I am not actually straight up gangster.

I guess I don't leave much room for anything besides loathing when a relationship has run it's course.

And now I have better access to this, so I may stop scribbling furiously in small notebooks like a strange hobo.

If I ever used names then you would know who I was talking about. No one ever needs to know who I'm talking about until it's sewing circle gossip time.

DREAMS

The first one is inconsequential, but worthy of writing down. Shia LeBouf was playing Invincible in a self-titled movie, except he had no powers and was still killing/fighting Viltrumites. At some point, I was hime and took part in the fight - and felt the need to prove that I didn't need powers to kill them, so I went for the eyes, but when they started to squish, I quit because I was grossed out.

Also: Mark had a sister in my dream named Teresa or something similar.

The second dream requires a bit more to report:

     I'm walking down Bardstown Rd, in front of Great Escape wearing my tan trench coat and a normal outfit with something clutched in my left hand and my messenger bag over my right shoulder. At some point I'm accosted by three very attractive girls and end up riding around with them and their criticisms. They comment about the outline of my junk in my jeans, call me pretentious for carrying a video cleaner (thing in left hand) and call me "uggio" (which isn't ugly - just that I dress too young for how old I am), I start to be defensive and mean, which only amuses them until they see fit to release me at the spot where they picked me up.

Why is the easiest, and most enjoyable, part of creative endeavors the outlining process - for me, anyway. It's just fun for me, especially when a plot weaves itself together and intersects all on its own without any effort, like it becomes this living, breathing thing. I've come to notice, as well, that thinking of fiction as a creature is a romantic way of thinking, but it absolutely makes sense. To breathe life into a character or story and have it control you and tell you where it goes next is a profound, and slightly eerie, experience. And I love it.

It's becoming clear to me that before I can move forward, I have to put them all to bed. Maybe I'll get some rest then.

Sometimes I wonder how much worse it could be to die than fall in love.

I always say I'm gonna start tomorrow, when I should just start today... after I watch this movie.

I think I've come closer to realizing the extent of my assholism, which I'm assuming is lumped in with why I'm conceited. Anyway, the point is that I expect people to know that I'm always good at what I do as long as I know what I'm doing. And when they question me - my immediate response is to coyly belittle them, fuck - that's my response for most everything - just varying degrees of berating.

I think there's a more devious type (or two) of women that I immediately fall in love with. The more I know, the easier it will be to stay away from them.

How do you tell someone that they were prettier when you were drunk... and horny?

What is that moment after cumming all about? Where the realness of the world just smacks you all at once and immediately your life to that point is summed up in some form of guilt.

A couple of days ago, my aunt told me that my face was too pretty to hide behind a big, grizzly beard. Turn's out, joke's on her.

At Subway, teenagers working and being teenagers. I don't miss it. Their gossiping techniques are very unrefined. Also note: don't try to write and drive, it may be more dangerous than texting behind the wheel.

Don't cut my heart with this subject, it will bleed profusely.

I thought the house was driving toward me, but it turns out I was only driving toward the house.

I've got dreams in Nyquil castles.

How delusional and detached from reality do I have to become before I feel fine? And how safe will I be after that?

DREAM

SCHWINEZ.

The only thing I've wanted to talk about at length for the past couple of years is you, and how much I did or didn't deserve things. But now that all consuming blaze of whatever has stifled. I don't know what to do about it.

I always used to like to pretend that I was older until I was too old to pretend.