Was there ever a question you couldn't bring yourself to ask? Was there ever something that you couldn't bring yourself to say? Was there something you couldn't answer even if it slapped you in the face?
Finishing the last bit of assignment questions is like that; it's too easy to ask someone for help, but too difficult you can't finish it, and the answer's probably staring you in the face.
I'm confusing. But it doesn't matter. Even when I'm wrong, I'm right. There are no absolutes, because if there were, strawberry shortcake would always be too expensive, and always taste too good, even if you'd never have tried it. You'd never have enough money, because there is a too much. Everything difficult and distasteful would be good for you, even if it killed you.
Nobody understands. Not even those who say they try. They say my arrogance will be my downfall one day. Perhaps I am. But ultimately, humility is the largest arrogance of all. Maybe I do forget what I say, maybe I'm convinced that I'm infallible. Maybe is all there is. There are no absolutes.
If one day I do fail as they say I will, I hope they will be there to see it kill me. See as I crumple on the sidewalk. It will be only too sweet for them to see that ultimately, it will all make sense as they notice that I am once again right, even when I was wrong.
There are no absolutes. And that said, that strawberry shortcake is STILL too fattening for you.
Looks like it really is difficult to care anymore. Gilbert O'Sullivan had it right. Alone again, naturally.
I think I have a new obsession. Dom Hot Hungarian Salami. Bought half a kilo. Gone through most of it already.
If you understand the following words, you are socially dead. Yay! Future Sight on Saturday with a nice entree of FNM on Friday!
Seven is the number of perfection.
Week seven is the week of the return to a perfect hell: people pay to get in and suffer innumerable mental and physical tortures, all in exchange for a scrap of parchment to mount on the wall. I'd sooner mount "something" else.
'Tis time to go back into the depths of the inferno. Dante should go fuck himself.
...of a century egg. Maybe just the yolk.
I don't know what I can say about my Friday. I noticed that most things were closed. Geeze, don't they know that public holidays are the BEST times to keep a business open? At any rate, it shouldn't really matter, since nothing was planned.
I was almost half expecting a surprise of sorts this year. Except that I shouldn't. Nothing shocking, nothing particularly memorable about this year. Like the whole mostly insignificant and ridiculous history of my life. Only notable thing was a stranger on the street singing happy birthday.
Indeed, fittingly, getting older this time seems to be no cause celebre.
Everything I put in my mouth today tastes foul.
The yoghurt tasted rancid, but it was not.
The ham tasted like nickels.
The peach tasted roughly like compost.
The water had the aftertaste of a bad tupperware-microwave accident.
I haven't dared try to fry an egg or even open the juice.
Precursor for the weekend? I hope not.
Only one week before I'm relegated to the pile of dusty, dessicated, husks.
Maybe in lieu of being young, I can act like the immature monstrosity that I am, which, judging by the mirror's opinion, I have achieved in a most stellar fashion.
Maybe I should pick up a foreign language, just so I can say this:
Hablar acerca de mi vida muy rara y en su mayor parte no existente del sexo es muy relleno de alma. Como obtener un enema de moco hirviente de nariz.
Even the grammar and context are thrown totally out of whack. I bet them crazy tequila-marinated Argentinians are having a field day, with a digusting array of snorts and glomps over my linguistic kerfuffle.
I think all I really want is the spiffy lappie I configured so love-rley. Or something. I booster box would be nice, too.
Or mebbe it's one more year I should spend in quiet contemplation on how I failed to achieve any of the objectives I set last year.
