The HTML is, in some sick way, slow. Perhaps I HAVE learned to write faster than I type. I don’t know why I delude myself (on several levels at once, no less), thinking that somehow I’ll resolve this madness by writing it all down, but I suppose I will know the summation of all consequences on, of all days, my birthday. Yes, all my questions will be asnwered, and I will be free to plot my course in as haphazard a manner as I might like (assuming the worst. It’s easier that way.)

FIrst of all, I am dwelling in some strange and twisted shadow world, where I don’t really exist. Let me tell you, this dictum of “Nothing is real until it is shared” is eroding away at my identity. If you forced me at gunpoint to tell you wnat I wanted to Be, I’m very confident I could spin you an interesting if not convincing yarn, but the continuity of such a fabrication would be quite suspect. If my identity were a cloud, and you had a time-lapse camera, it would be like watching that cloud turn grey, all of a sudde turn into a rock, fall out of the sky, sit on the mud for a little while, then incandesce, fling itself back into the sky, and become the sun. I could go into further absurdity—you might see the sun narrow, dim, and then start flapping its wings—I’m sure you get the picture. Right.

I do suppose I AM a writer, but I don’t feel like there’s anything special about that, as I write this pseudo-journal, quasi-work-of-fiction. Me asserting my identity as a writer is a little too much like asserting my identity as a human being. True, perhaps, but quite common, almost as if it would be more miraculous if I weren’t. After all, isn’t everyone?

Then, too, there was this little matter of seeing [redacted] this weekend… too used to being consigned to the “just friends” pile, I found myself essentially locking up, imagining all sorts of dastardly scenarios where again and again, I am the third wheel just along for the ride.

Jesus H Christ, when I screw something up, I do make sure it’s a total job, don’t I?

Pretend, or face reality? You already know what I’d rather choose. I tell you, prescience is more a curse than a gift.

There’s very low probability that I will find [redacted] available once I reenter the world of the living. This is quite difficult to all-of-a-sudden adjust to, considering that the only reason I survived seven weeks was through enjoying the pretense of having someone to go back to [no matter how unrooted from reality that pretense was.]

Now I realize that I don’t have a home. Again. The only true surcease to my sorrow is my brother and my sister, who will be absent should I choose to return to the City of Angels. That, and escalating familial drama, were quite palpable deterrants to my return.

And yet I have no place to go.

And I can’t tell you how this unending loneliness is tearing at my soul.

So much for relief. Hopefully, things will stabilize in a couple of days, and I will return to the normal grind.

I wish there were someone to tell me everything would be all right in the end, but unfortunately events have transpired such that I have come to regard the Empire of Disney as a treacherous demonic farce that produces a non-narcotic though equally addictive form of soma.

Ignorance is bliss, unless you realize you are ignorant, and then you [are] forced to contemplate the unhappiness of accepting reality, or the dissatisfaction of remaining ignorant.

If I had Solomon’s wish, I would ask God for a better sense of timing, or perhaps the ability to be content with my actions, however misguided. I must repress the urge to close with another cliché.