11:29 am - Tuesday, Sept. 03, 2002
Song:
I feel like humming, and like sleeping.
There's been a thousand moments I've longed to log, to write down, but lacked that motivation to do so.
Reading The O I saw a bit in the Commentary section that I had already read, as it was written by dear Portland teen Zoe Trope who I utterly despise because we're the exact same age, and this writing thing is going to get her places.
And my own should eternally be dammed to the pages of DiaryLand, which no matter how dear to me, isn't what I try for.
Maybe if I had the motivation to write all that I felt, or to wrap myself around the clicks of a keyboard and the forced writing needed to put forth much work.
Maybe then I would have the neat orderly pages of a book flowing from my hands and mind into the mind of others where they overly decipher my meaning and try to give each piece a false poetic twist. Because you can't write without being over-analyzed these days.
And more then that, I'm no fucking Zoe Trope or David Sedaris. I'm not gay. There are no extremes in my life. I don't hate everyone. I'm not on, many, drugs.
For the trend of gay, alcoholic writers out there, the only thing backing me up is a love of all things alcohol, and a mind that forces writing.
And once again I notice one of my favorite subjects to write about is the fact I want to write.
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