I use the same words in every poem.

It seems as if the RSS feed that spoonfeeds this monster into facebook no longer works. It's just as well, really. I don't have too much of value to say these days. Watch though, I'll preface this blog as such and suddenly everything miraculously fixes itself and I look like a huge douchebag. Wouldn't be the first time.

My life varies only slightly from week to week. My "everything" seems to be a small array of unending cycles that spin round and round fluctuating only minutely from cycle to cycle. The thing is that they aren't cumulative. Nothing ever builds on itself or anything else. It's like Groundhog Week meets The Mike Stringer Show meets A Comedy of Errors. Good God, give me something to work with!

On the other hand, I'm writing lots of poetry. Lots of poetry that I'll actually look at and read without wincing. I'm happy about that despite my conscious rejection of the knowledge that you can't raise a family writing poems. And unless I plan on writing the great American novel, I can't expect prose to pay the bills either. Some people are good at math or science or something else that translates into an economically stable future. I end up being the starving artist. Though I suppose that the art comes from the pain which comes from the struggle. How's that for twisted?

Regardless, I both dread and eagerly await recieving the decision on my transfer application to Rutgers. It could be quite altering. Imagine losing a year... as I'd essentially be doing. Is it worth it? Is it really better there? One can only hope.

I remember talks I used to have with old friends about "real" people and "fake" people. But now it feels like the argument isn't so accessible anymore. I don't know these people. I make judgements and I end up being wrong. I get caught up in a whirlwind of being myself and trying to be likeable and I wonder... who am I to say who's "real" anymore. Am I even? I really sincerely hope so.

I've always been facinated by lying, the nature of falsehood, and bullshit. And I can't help but think that of all the things these people have told me - all this shit I've swallowed as fact - there's gotta be some bullshit in there. These are the things that I think about when I'm being introspective.

Maybe I should post some writing on this bitch.

Maybe.

Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike