Ideas: the Satyrcorn, and ridculomalaria

No rhyme, no reason. Oh must I have a reason for everything I do? Why am I this sad juxtaposition of contradictions, a triple-layered cake of gut instinct, automatic counter-reflex, and intellectual, rational psychobabble. It’s a wonder I can decide anything at all. Or maybe I just let decisions be made for me.

WHy the minutiae? Every time I do this, it’s the same question. Oh, what will it take for me to go on, with no retreat? I am in the wrong profession, perhaps. What am I doing to myself?

…

Suffice it to say, every time I talk to [redacted] I realize how bereft of integrity my decision may be. Am I truly being true to myself, following where my heart leads me? Or do I truly recognize my bizarre needs, fulfilling them in the only way I can, as haphazard as that may be?

Dear God, this security guard is making me nervous.

I’ve but to keep flipping, keep letting the ideas drop. This is probably a really good time to talk to AB.

Ok, there’s someone with a tape recorder. I’m getting the fuck out of here.