WELL...

At this moment, to fathom practicality in a great depth of reflection is something even I am forced to scoff over.

The scholarly, back-to-chaos events of the past few days have been enough to compose lyrical banter upon witty trash-talks, and yet, I have sufficiently drained myself of the human will and eagerness required to present said treasures to the world at large.

I just moved in.
I'm exhausted.
I'll talk to you later, okay?

Thanks.

FAMILY MATTERS.

This evening- well, to be totally honest, merely the last twenty minutes of this evening- has left me nothing short of mind-numbingly conflicted. Looming in the horizon sat the reality I am now facing, with resolution on either of the two ends of the idiotic spectrum. Both colors of this metaphor are currently kindergarten-finger-smeared all over someone who, for many years reigning and even more to come, will remain a fixture of my life and its understanding forthwith. I've been left with no choice but to deem someone, a person I find a rather ingenuous mix of cosmic creativity and reverent logic, the ultimate doo-doo head.

With sheer brilliance must also come sheer moron-acy. Moron-itis. Moron-ness.

My point- why are smart people total and complete knuckle-sandwiches? With cheese? And why do the chips they come with never suit my at-the-moment tastes? Why not potato salad? Or vegetables on the side?

Why must these infernal banes of my existence always keep me craving for robust and more inviting expansions in their future, only to exhaust all my trust and succumb to the pressures of all things peer?
And why do I keep speaking of these things in multiples? Do I have more than one doo-doo head, finger-painted, metaphorical mess in my life right now?
No. Just the one. And I want to cut his adolescent little face off for being so careless.

It is very obviously one in the morning, and I am very obviously disappointed with someone I care about greatly.

Cue "perfect excuse to stop writing scathingly and play sudoku."
And...

Go.

RECUPERATION.

I certainly am one to recognize that it's been a few days since I arrived back from my trip, but, to be honest, I've fallen back into the realm of complete and utter exhaustion.
Something that, dare I be the first to say it, is not entirely productive towards human interaction.

Here is a tiny bit of photographic evidence of my exploits, more of which can be found via Facebook here and here.







If I was ambitious, I would post more. However, I simply don't see that being an option.
Word.

I'M IN A NEW YORK STATE OF MIND.

Gerard and I head out for PA and, in time, New York, at around 5:00 PM.
Which, dare I say it, is pretty damned exciting.

For the most part, I hope that this trip proves the veritable antithesis of my summer thus far: gripping, tactile, enamoring, exhilarating, and best yet, NEW YORK CITY.

[Editor's Note: Don't try to make sense of that statement. I will sing showtunes if you try to make sense out of it. Seriously. Don't dare me. I'll take you down.]

Whereas the rabid energy and relentless giddiness have yet to appear, I do have some sort of a nervous tension has situated itself in my gut, indicating nothing but poor diet and holistic planning. Or nervousness. Whatever.

To be brief (That which I am never, nor will ever be...), I'm ready to spend a week stalking theatrical marvels, singing like the utter geek I am, snapping memories quicker than I can take coinciding photographs, and loving the people I am with and without the best that I can.

This is my chance to be human again.
I am so out of here.

HA.

Ha.
Ha, ha.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.


I have The Mononucleosis.
Hence the perpetually crappy and formulaic existence.

Explanations are sweet like candy. Sweet, sweet candy.

FORTUNATE.

This is basically what my evening consisted of.


Luckily, my dinner was kind enough to make it all better for me.
Sort of.

"The cure for greif is motion."

I'll feel better tomorrow.
I have to.

"LIZ-ARD LICKS HIS EYE-BALL."

I'm frantically eager to write something this morning. Nothing of consequence, mind you, but something that I can at least validate as a stipend of my own thought, the dull inkling of mental capacity that I have stored up somewhere in my relatively snug cranium.

[Editor's Note: Ha. I just received a piece of spam with the subject title of "peepee growth." Also front-runners in the subject box were, "Screwme PLease" and "INTERIORDESIGNERYOUARENOW." Mind you, their titles was not nearly as grammatically correct or sound as the first, but I thought it was a meritous effort from all three nonetheless.]

Despite the fact that medicinal necessity has left me poked, prodded, and pining for blood this morning, I'm in a realistically sound mood. The prospect of my older brother visiting on Friday is a nice twist to scenario, as is the idea that I have a mere five days to wait until PA, New York City, and all the glorious things that go along with that: Michael Time, Gerard Time, etc. (Although similar in sound, I assure you that "Time" with these two men is vastly different in its content and disposition. In every essence of the word "different." Promise.)

I know that there are most certainly other factors accumulating to form my rather good-natured energy and positive force at the moment, I'm just not exactly sure what those factors have been spun of.

Also, and MOST DEFINITELY a factor of my recent mood, I've managed to catch Burt Bacharach's latest televised endeavors via the Geico commercial where he plays a little ditty about lizards licking eyeballs and getting rear-ended (Dirty!) and such. Contrary to popular belief, it basically validates my existence.



Alright.
I'm good.