Wednesday, 3 February 2010
01:45:45 AM (GMT)
Well, I’ve succumbed. Here, again, on Kupika. But that’s okay. I guess I’ll
just talk. I like talking.
I’m tired. You still make me giggle. You contradictory child, you. But I’m
still tired. You make me tired. Life makes me tired. But in different ways. Life
drags, time without sleep makes me tired. You exhaust me. There’s only so much
tossing and turning a girl can do before mental-fatigue sets in. Well, I think I’ve
finally stopped thrashing, came up with a satisfactory answer. I’m not sure if I
believe my answer. Hell, I don’t even remember the question. Arthur Dent would be
proud. To bad he’s fictional. To bad you’re not fictional. Not to be rude, but
things would be a lot more believable if I was merely reading about this rather than
living it. Not like it’s a huge struggle or anything, life’s pretty idyllic.
Despite mild episodes of What the Fuckery? its been good. I would make a very bad
novel, I think. But a very good minor character to a sitcom. Not a main character or
anything. The main character requires change. And we both know that’s near
impossible for me. Or too possible it has no psychological meaning anymore. Ya, that
place was a mistake. I guess you were too. Well, a mistake I would gladly redo again
if I could. I guess I can’t. I guess no one can. Except you. But yrou not going to,
are you. That wasn’t a question, it was a world weary statement.