Untitled

...i promised to my wife annnnd children....

I'm stressing

there are so many things that I have missed. That I have used to be.

I looked at old pictures from high school. I used to be so pretty. I used to create.

That's not me. Anymore.

I don't even write. These sentences are nothing. Just shitty shit.

I'll see. And again. See. That. Th

Today is Monday.

The day after Sunday.

My headache is gone. It started to subside as I told myself, "This is what I like."

You can shout, if nothing else. Forgo the music, neglect the song.

You can wiggle; jump.

Take a stab.

For

nobody

really notices,

nor do they remember,

I don't really know how to use this piece of technology. I understand the basics, but I'm sure there're some ethics that I just violated by "re-blogging" some things.

Oh well.

If I did it wrong, let me know.

It's early March, that means it's early Madness. The country will pretend to be basketball fans for a bit. We will pretend that it matters. We will feel excitement, disappointment, elation, anger, etc.

It matters so much because of the simple fact that it doesn't really matter.

Methinks.

because the day-um-ed alcohol.

That's a good song. It's actually a lyric. From a show. That played a song.

I don't remember the band that played the song. I do remember the show that it was on. That show was How I Met Your Mother.

It's one of those shows that I'm not entirely proud of watching. I'm glad that a few of my friends like it. That makes me feel like I'm on less of an island. I shouldn't take advice from this show. It's not real.

Real.

Real.

REal.

REAl.