Seeing so much of it coming did very little to stop it from happening. Odd. God gives you a gift, shows you how it works, then refuses to let you use it for anyone's good. Come to think of it that's how it would seem God handles a lot of things.
Yesterday was long. Yesterday was tough. Yesterday is over so I'm not going to worry about it all too much.
It's today that's got me now. I've been unbelievably clear lately, despite the fog. So here goes nothing.
I fell asleep amidst minor fits and furies and stayed out for a whole three hours. I can trick my body into doing and thinking (and feeling...) lots of things, I can't trick it into staying asleep. Those three hours were more than I've gotten in a week, and even though I could have slept another two hours more my body woke up screaming, ENOUGH!
This head that has been all over the place thought of a new one. Soon I'm going to be out of a job, broke, and pissed off bitter beyond belief. I don't see how that can be any worse then anywhere else I've ever been.
Aside...someone once told me a story about how before they got to Rutgers they weren't that into Asian girls (really far aside now that I think about it), but after a few years of being surrounded by them they became really into Asian girls. Without any real reason then switched sides of the spectrum since the simple quantity of Asian girls at Rutgers naturally improved their chances. I, on the other hand, was in a similar locale to this guy...and never felt that change. This goes well on to proving my theory. A man's dick is only as honest as his options, but a man's heart is true through and through.
Most writers are thrilled when someone compares their work to that of a great author. Me? Not so much. I wrote something once and a professor based a whole class around the story I wrote by comparing it to Hemingway. Most folks would be over the moon on that one, I wasn't because I understood exactly what she was saying. If she had compared it to the work of a nobody, or even a good author my insecurity riddled mind might have let it slide. But Hemingway...ah, Hemingway. See the implicit understanding in comparing any amateur writer to Hemingway is that their work can be like that of Hemingway, just not as good. No one drops the qualifier, it's just assumed. So by saying that something I wrote reminded her of Hemingway, she was really saying, "This reminds me of Hemingway...just nowhere near as good." And of course she would be absolutely right...and I wouldn't mind being in that company anyway, the list of authors "not as good as Hemingway" is a long and proud one. I do however believe I would be the first bus driver on that list.
And finally...the point of this rather pointless entry. It's 3:30 in the morning and I have a feeling, that feeling, that same old special feeling. I've done this before and I've always been right. Today is one of those days. Something will happen today that I'm not expecting, it will be the cornerstone of this day, and maybe of many days to come. Maybe it will involve it, her, them. Maybe it will be something that affects the whole world, maybe just me. Maybe the world will turn ass side up, and leave us staring out at unfamiliar skies. Maybe I'll meet someone famous, or important, or special, or all three. Maybe nothign will happen at all. I don't know because I can't see it just yet, but as soon as I do, you'll be the first ones to hear about it.
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