Another post? Christ.

The popularity of my sentences makes me wish I had some sort of private diary to fold my life neatly into. But where would I get gratification if I didn't share my futile struggles with the rest of humanity?

I always seem to write fleetingly about some indescribable feeling. Similar to when a comedian tells a knockout joke that you know you can relate to, you just can't quite put your finger on why you've never thought of it before. I wouldn't say that's my intention, but it feels damn good to think I'm treading on intellectual ground.

With my life all patched and audited, I can take a step back and observe what's going on. I have love interests, and whether or not I lie to myself and pursue them is entirely dependent on... Well, what is it dependent on?

Oh sure, if I wanted to be a corny motherfucker, I could sit down and construct one of those pros and cons lists, but at the end of the possible relationship I'm saying "I told you so." Which is why I avoid those things like the plague.

Really, I don't know. I'm glad that things have been laid out for me on a platter this time around. I see with clarity now, not the hazed-over beer goggles of love.