Ehhh...

I had a vivid dream about eating shortbread cookies dusted with powdered sugar, pastries with cream cheese and raspberry jam, chocolate truffles and strange, fluffy, fist-sized, bun-esque baked goods that were like pound cakes with crispy outer shells filled with pudding. Damn, that sounds good. I woke up in guilt and I fully expect my dreamself to be a few lbs. heavier tonight. :\

Very little motivation to write recently.

I've begun several posts, but I always end up rereading them, shouting "BAH," and deleting them; they just aren't real. They barely succeed in being functional lists of facts, much less true expressions of my actual thoughts, emotions and mindflavors.

Why am I here on the world of the intertrons? Sometimes I am sure that I'm writing to impress you. I'm building up a pretty facade to amuse myself. I'm just as effing guilty as the advertising industry when it comes to cropping, blurring, and smoothing.

I'm weary of blogs and social networking sites. They're arenas and back alleys and hidden diaries designed explicitly for ego-stroking, for vanity and greed, for the miserable to shamelessly attempt to suck others into their little idiotic pits. Why is it that when humanity converges, utter crap is often the product? Why do I chirp out my impotent frustrations here like a crushed cricket in a little hummock of grass and yet continue to subscribe to the very motivations and values that are slowly draining the life out of me and replacing it with revulsion?

When I'm not here, when I'm not reading your biased, misconstrued, grammatically unstructured stream-of-consciousness autobiographies, I'm full of joy. How horrible is that?

Does your validation actualize me, too?