REMOTE

Oh fuck me running, I left the house sans notebook again. Lucky for me Patricia Cornwell left some purdy blank pages in the back of dissere book.

Anyhoo, where was I- Oh yeah, this stream of conciousness thing. First of all, I want to say I type like I talk, but, I'm analyzing myself (and talking to people more, as much as it pains me) and that's not 100% true. I type how I talk to myself. I'm still pretty reserved when I talk to other people. So, this is healthy. It gets it all out. Purging my thoughts whatever they are, so I don't risk blowing them to the wrong person.

Call it literary masturbation.

I'm just as into it. Right now, my heart is pounding, my mind is racing, my hands are sweating a little. My guilty little pleasure. Shh *wink*

And that's another thing. Where did THAT little analogy come from? What is it with me and sex lately. I guess the adage is sorta true, the more you get it, the more you want it. Another of life's funny little cycles. Or, it could be The Other Thing. That thing that I dare not name. It's a constant source of mind buzzing-horndog inspiring energy. I'm afraid, constant reader, that I will not disclose That Other Thing, even here. It's too big. Maybe when it shrinks, I can talk about it better. Right now it's choking me, and filling my head. Time should be the trick, for that thing.

Haha, what am I talking about, this "constant reader" bullshit. I had maybe 4 readers, who peeked in there, realized that I'm as dull and babbling as I said I would be (do I lie? No, I do a lot of things, but I sure don't lie, not even to myself). So, you've all probably melted away by now. Good, I can forget about you and move along with talking to myself freely. If you haven't, that's cool too.

I'm outta paper, there wasn't that much to begin with, I gotta hop outta the car and grab Wunderkind. More mental musings, later. I'm still not out of steam.