Fingerpainting

Almost as if to illuminate my miserable inability to achieve closure and the new beginnings which follow, I find myself prefixing an unhealthy number of sentences with "and" or "so."

Just food for thought.

I'll let you chew on that for a moment.

Okay.

There isn't a whole hell of a lot to report, truth be told, sans the boring rehash of the goings-on in my life. But I guess that there are worse things. This past weekend was largely pleasant and Eric's visit was most welcome, as was the assurance that the past six months or so haven't been the product of my growing maddness therein. It was fun to decline responsibility for a night- just saturate and let come what may. I don't get to do that often. And probably for good reason. We went to New York and that always manages to put me someplace magical for a while. The lights and sounds and people. It's the second greatest city on Earth. Second, of course, to London... which is only so great because I've never been there. And until I do it will continue to simply be the flawless depiction of class and zeal that I've scrawled -nay- haphazardly fingerpainted on the canvas of my mind.

There are so many places I've never been.

And then there's this thing I do with isolated lines. You know, when I'm saying something that I think is significant, worldly, quotable, or wise. Is it really as effective in accentuating a thought as I think it is?

Is it?

Or perhaps it's just useful in creating a tempo, pauses and moments implying their passage, in the piece. Are we having a conversation, dear reader? A depressingly one-sided conversation? Have I effectively made it so that my monologuing is compelling and theatrical?

I'm probably pretty unbearable to read or even talk to when I'm being cynical. Whatevs. This morning I had math class, another 90 minutes piled atop a mountain of time wasted trying fruitlessly to learn how to think in numbers. I'm a mathematical lost cause. Maybe when I die they'll observe my brain to find some rare tumor only present in the grey matter of those weirdos who'd rather write an essay than do long division. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration. I'm actually pretty fucking good at long division.

Afterwards I opted not to go back to sleep in hopes of limiting my hours as an insomniac - a stupid decision considering that tonight is 24 night and I don't have class tomorrow. So I could theoretically stay up as late as I want, watching movies or something equally useless. So once again my good intentions are trumped and my eyelids are getting heavy. It's not even 1pm yet. I think I'm hypersomniac.

Or a hypochondiac. Hm.

Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike

PS. I can't figure out if I should capitalize "blogosphere". I suppose it is a proper noun. Fuck.