6am.
Wide awake with nothing to do.
Watching "How I Met Your Mother" on Demand.
[Hooray Rogers Ditigal Box.]
[For the record, this show is not that funny when you don't happen to come across it channel surfing.]
Thought, "Why don't I pull up the old blog, write some stuff?"
...I got nothing.
"The more melancholic I get, the deeper art I can feel." -- Milos Vujasinovic
I used to write so much.
I look back on old blog/journal entries I had and I see so much.
I think, "Woah. Drama. What a douchebag."
But at the same time, I'm impressed.
The quality of writing was phenomenal for one thing, especially for the age of my earliest ones.
There was so much depth to the content, as well.
I was miserable.
I had no ambition.
I had such a high value of what my self-worth could be, without any idea of how to actualize that.
I hated where I was and hated how stuck I felt.
I was painfully emotional, dictated constantly by everything I felt weighing down on me all the time.
[It was fuckin gross... I had to quit that shit. Robotz4Life.]
Not to say my life is perfect now but I am definitely not there anymore.
I'm struggling to write out My Voice because I'm not there; I'm not living it nor feeling it.
[Side Note: Happy Endings is surprisingly am-uh-zing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=byQUexZw5uo]
Okay, I lost my point.
Okay, not sure I had one.
Point is, I'm not sad, generally speaking.
Even when I'm sad, I'm still happy with my life and where I am.
I have no deep, heartbreaking pain to write about.
That leaves me awake at night with nothing to do but watch episode after episode of mediocre television shows.
[Hooray Rogers Digital Box!]
It's kiiiiiiiiiinda whack.
I know I'm gonna get tired like an hour before I have to get up to go somewhere, too.
Son of a... *shakes fist*
:D
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