Brain Vomit

I am sitting here, at my desk, bored out of my goddamn skull. For some people, being bored is an inconvenience. For me, however, it's absolute torture.

You see, I get trapped inside of my head very, very easily. As you all who read this regularly can imagine, being inside my head isn't always very pleasant. At best, it's bothersome, but at its worst - like tonight, for some reason - it's downright frustrating.

I have a good deal of things on my mind. There are events and people from the past that I haven't thought about in years randomly popping into my head. I have things that are presently going on that are eating at me, as my last blog post covered. And, of course, the ever-present concern of the future that all human beings everywhere seem to share.

This, I believe, is what bothers me the most. You see, all I really want is my piece of the American Dream - my slice of the pie - for my future. Alas, I don't really know how to go about doing it. I have very few practical skills, beyond being able to talk and write like I have more than just clay, porn, and flatulence in my head (not exactly true, but I can fake it with the best of them). How, then, does one turn this into something that can be relied on to make money dollars?

I have no friggin' clue. I'm just taking shots in the dark, writing where and when I can, but mostly just doing the same thing as any of you, and that's floundering around the sea of life like a jellyfish, only half-aware of what's really going on around me. But that's okay. I've come to accept it.

While on the subject of jellyfish, I would like to point out that cuttlefish are the coolest sea critters ever.

Moving on....

I've been doing a lot of thinking about my own personal views and philosophies, lately, and have come up with this: absolutely nothing. I only say this because of the fact that what I believe in are things that any man or woman or hermaphrodite or eunuch or whatever can agree with, regardless of creed, race, food preferences, and so on. Things like "Don't be a dick." and "Let it be."

It's a bit more complicated than that, but I've pretty much lost faith that others can follow my thought patterns. This is mostly because I can barely do it myself, so how can I expect others to do it?

My brain moves along at a rapid pace. I know a lot of people claim this, but let me put this into perspective for you. I enjoy the analogy that it's similar to a cheetah running under the influence of no less than one ounce of crystal meth after having chugged a gallon of Red Bull.

For those of you now thinking about it, here is a cheetah, specifically for the enjoyment of your eye-orbs.

Moving on....

I normally don't care at what pace my mind runs at, because I have this awesome ability to ignore it for a while. I can just push everything aside and let my subconscious roam on automatic pilot and things pop up here and there. But then times like these come around and everything that my subconscious mind processed comes up to the surface, allowing me some pleasantries and a lot of horrors.

I think about pleasant things, sometimes, but then there are those times where I just want to stab my brain with a Q-Tip or something, because I'll suddenly think about something horrible that I did to or for someone in the past, and I start to get stuck in some kind of loops with these kinds of memories, which, of course, lead to some pretty gnarly (read: jacked up) thought patterns.

I like to sometimes sit here and analyze what it is that I'm thinking and why I'm thinking that, but tonight, for some reason, I can't do that. Instead, I'm sitting here like a trained monkey, type type typing away on my keyboard in hopes that I can get somewhere constructive.

Clearly, this isn't working out too well, but again.... that's okay.

I sometimes wonder if my snake is secretly planning my murder. I haven't fed her in a while, and she's staring at me from behind the walls of her glass prison, the light of the heat lamp reflecting eerily off her obsidian eyes. Her tongue flickers, and I wince, not helping but to imagine that same tongue flicking at an open wound of some sort.

I really am a screwed-up guy.