It's been a year, but that's basically how I roll. Literally roll, through the dirt and mud of my life.

My dog hates that I'm doing this more than I do.

I'm really just comforted by the clacking of keys, I can barely see what it is I'm writing let alone think about it.

I remember a time when I was hopeful for the future - frightened but hopeful - of all the things that I could achieve but probably wouldn't. I think Elliott Smith said it best:

"Drink up baby, stay up all night
with the things you could do -
you won't but you might -
the potential you see
that you'll never be,
the promises you'll only make"

If this isn't a universal emotion then I'm clearly some sort of overdramatic, drastically unpleasant loser. "Of epic proportions".

Few people talk to me willingly. I make a lot of people confused, or angry, and I'm not sure if I'm the one who misunderstands them or if it's the other way around. I try to empathize, but it's difficult when they discuss their two week paid vacations and college degrees they obtained for nothing other than bragging rights.

I find solace in fiction. It is the universe around which I build my life. Nothing true makes sense, but fiction has this logic that is lacking in life. Unless, of course, I simply have not experienced enough life to find the logic in it, a possibility which I am not excluding; I am not the master of any reality, not even mine.

Is there a word for my lack of acceptance of any single reality? I constantly bounce between states of being, one minute being overjoyed at the prospects of the universe and the next wallowing in self-pity. How do I know which reality is correct? If it's all my perception, then my choice of which to accept is all that matters, but then that would make reality a highly malleable and subjective state which wouldn't really make it reality at all, and more a changeable software on a hard drive.

I know what you're thinking though - you, that invisible, non-existent reader, probably think that I am some sort of bipolar, but I assure you this is not the case. There are no manic highs. Certainly there are days I don't want to leave my bed but I attribute that more to good sense and hormones more than anything else.

Are blogs supposed to talk about specific things? I suppose I could do that, though I seem to be rambling.

I guess I could rant about how much I hate going to salons to get haircuts, but it seems so trivial.

Maybe some other day (see quotes above).