All the bullshit you can handle. It's all there, more than you can bare to read in one sitting on hooked on bloging. I no longer desire or crave thier mindless drivel. I find it weak, passe', and pointless. It makes me ponder on the futality of keeping a record of what must seem the same to others who read what it is that oozes from the depths of my soul or sometimes just rattles off from nothingness without a single thought or reason behind it. The writings that used to make up my life have no fun in them anymore, they hold no joy. I find I don't even read them all the way through.
Thursday, August 15, 2002