there's a weight dragging through the days
2004-04-04 - 3:17 p.m.

People in animal costumes: it's all fun and games until someone gets sexually violated.

I used to find them cute and novel and amusing but I think an episode of CSI -- where people dressed in animal costumes and went to conventions and in their spare time got into big animally writhey gropey huddles -- has permanently disturbed me.

At the Easter Show the other day, Shelley made us get our picture with a person dressed as a cow - and I walked away feeling, as Christina Aguilera would sing it, dirrty. Oh the violation!

I've been trying to cut back on the sugar but it seems to be leading to me talking more crap.

It's a Sunday Morning, well afternoon technically, but I didn't get up til noon and as the two parts intertwine into luxuriating laziness it doesn't really matter anyway.

I should be doing assignment no. 2 but... um... insert excuse of choice here. My dog ate my ... will to live. A piano fell on my ability to make myself do work.

I'm going to die!... at some point. I can't cope with assignments who patiently sit there and politely ask to be done. They need to scream obscenities and do a provocative dance just to get my attention; to get done they need to flirt with other students and claim I'm incapable of getting the job done.

Especially on a day like today - overcast and a tiny bit chilly - I'd rather snuggle down with a warm drink and plug myself into tv or a book. Or turn on all the radios in the house and jump up and boogie down to whatever happens to be playing.

"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours, damn right, it's better than yours, I can teach you, but I have to charge."

Is on currently. It's taking all my mental strength not to wonder what a milkshake is. Not wondering. Not visualising. Hmmm.... Okay I visualised, ew.

Life is pretty stagnant... stagnate... staggy at the moment. You know the word I'm meaning. We've plateau-d and flipflopped and backpeddled and all that comes up are reruns.

At home I find myself sighing or laughing where I could be crying. Not sure if that's a good thing or not.

I keep waiting for something that's new and special and mine and enough. What is it? Will it ever come? If it does, will it stay? Will I lose it or ignore it or chase it away?

I envy the people with dreams, especially those with too many, I wonder if I could beg or steal or borrow my way to one.

If all else fails, I can always try ebay. Surely someone's in straits so dire that they have to sell.

"megalomaniac, you're no jesus, you're no elvis, you're no answer,"

And the only thing I'm even vaguely relatively good at, is this. Which is not useful at all, I don't even like writing 3/4's of the time, it tortures me and twists me up and even I'm not that masochistic. At times I can hardly stand it's counterpart, reading is even more excruciating. Sure there is a definite group of people whose writing slides through your brain like some marvellous drug; but there is a majority out there who cobble the words together regardless of form and formulaicness and function and.... AAAARRRGGGHHH. It's painful to watch people pour themselves into something and like it just because they wrote it; be unable to evaluate their works on their actual merits and weaknesses.

Hugely hypocritical, ranty and procrastinatey, but I needed to say it.

Anyway, life goes on, none of my words are ranty enough to stop time so don't let them pause you.


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