The Mother of All Posts

It's so pointless boring yourself. This is my first entry, and what a fucking coincidence for it to be born out of boredom.

You say to yourself that it's going to be one of those days, when it's already seven in the morning, and you're still awake. Nothing out of the ordinary, right, until you remember that you used to hit the sack at around the same time you're writing this. And the fact that it has always been so for two years already ain't helping either. So you plan on counting sheep, or sheeps, depending on how much you can figure until you do get drowsy, but you don't even dare come anywhere near your pillow. It reeks of last night's spit, and the smell ain't even that wretched to knock you out.

Maybe a little television would help, and then you try to recall what shows are good at this time of the morning. Dexter's Lab might be on, but you really ain't on target with that one. You don't watch the news, so that's definitely not an option, but something interesting might be on HBO to keep you glued for maybe another hour or so. So with that in mind, you hunt for the remote and start getting comfortable, and then you remember that it ain't working no more, not even with fresh batteries on. Aw crap, you'll do it manually, instead, and then you recall that the TV's in the repair shop and isn't due in another two days or so. You start muttering four-letter words that begin with an F, and then you wander aimlessly around the house looking for something to do. You see this mirror, and wonder if something good has been happening to your face lately.

You begin to notice how haggard your skin begins to appear, and how unclean you become to yourself ever since you've had that appendectomy. And then you begin on one of those endless personal debates that it's all for the better, you're body's getting a bit cleaner from the inside, and you start convincing yourself that you'll get much prettier as the days go by. You start planning on how you will make yourself better looking as compared to the disgusting sack of neglect that you are right now. So in the midst of all these pimples, blemishes, and the rugged complexion, you divert your attention to getting a bit of the glamour back, and then some.

This is not helping, though. It's already twenty? thirty? minutes past the hour, and you're still slouching in front of your word processor, trying to squeeze something in your train of thought. Have you had breakfast yet? you ask yourself, and your stomach growls in disagreement. Suddenly, you are faced with yet another decision to occupy your brain that needs to sleep. Am I going to have congee? Milk in a pea shell soup? How about spaghetti? You declare shit; you're going to have all of them.

Now that one decision has been resolved, you wonder if you're feeling sleepy yet.

Maybe I'll start a blog instead.