In the words of an old friend as we were watching Bleach: "...a beautiful girl living in your closet. That is HOT. Where can I get one?"

NJ: "Me too!"

Sorry, and Seldom. Playing music, like I said. And plowed. Fuckin'...

Completely plowed with Nevermore and Seriously. Playing Irish music and listening to music and watching Don Hertzfeld. Good, good times.

Yay.



Tagged.



Here's the deal:
1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Post the fifth sentence (or closest to it).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same thing.

That all important sentence:

Some one please wake me from this giddiness, this fog-brained stupor of joy and contentment.

Odd to think back on that time: a Senior in late second semester at TAC, driving Cat Zipperle's car back early that sunny morning for class after spending the night at my bro Steve's room at the Glen Tavern Inn. I think I was averaging about 2-3 hours of sleep a night for that whole year.

I have owed these to you for a while now.

Being somewhat intoxicxated is so nice after such a long spell of dryness. My dear friends, I really do want to post; I desire to feed you with wise poetry, the inner stirrings of my soul, and the unstoppable romance of living...but alas, I am fatigued, and I choose bed in your stead. With much sorrow...but not really

My heart
It was a loaded gun
But it's empty now
So don't bother

-Uncle Tupelo

It occurs to me that we spend so much of our lives attempting to reach that state which will allow us to be good that we don't very well guard against the little daily attacks on our soul. A full night's sleep, daily prayers, regular meals---these and more are important but down-played, ignored, or simply forgotten elements of an alert and functional life---we look ahead, blinders on, trying to make out in the distance that sunny place of light and comfort where finally, all will be well...

She is small, silver, automatic (curses), and very Mexican---tinted windows, big stereo, cheesy plastic chrome hubcaps---but she is all mine. Finally, a personal haven of sound, freedom on four wheels, gleaming paint and rubber and petrol fumes! She is (so far) loyal (a first in years, though I claim to be a mechanic), and though at first glance quite plain, she is pretty cool once you get to know her. Her name is Hannah.

It is chilly and lonely tonight. Despite my frustrated words, blogging is like conversing with an old friend. So here I am again, talking to the emptiness because it is a cold night, musing because the events that make up life demand it, slipping into the same things I sought to escape. We can only change up to a point; we are not meant to shuffle off our humanity, but to throw that humanity on Christ, knowing He will care for His wandering sheep. And wander we will...

I don't want to blog anymore. It's too personal, too self-centered, too, too...much. You know what I mean. I no longer have the heart for it.

I feel like the kid who was dared to drink the most milkshakes and is now trying not to puke in front of his friends...

"Please, Sir---I want some more."