Short Stop and a Long Ride

Man, I do know. That's why I'm typing this; I know. Come on, who could possibly start typing something if some part of them didn't want to type something down? I don't know the answer to that question unless mind control has been achieved somewhere in this wicked and happy world. We need more severing of awesomeness into chunks of cool sometimes, then we need to stitch them together for the sake of lying down in comfy beds and sleeping serenely. I need some rest right now, but I don't feel like resting. I feel like typing my brains out till I you hear a oafhasoid;kv h; aa fusdifhae;fjads;flaskdjfa;sj when my head hits the keyboard, know what I'm saying? I need to keep typing, or I'll wind up being bored again, and I don't want that to happen, nor do you if you're reading this stupid blog. Notice that I've stopped the millions of cusses I used to say when I typed on here. I guess that means I'm healing from pain, or perhaps mellowing out of it. Either way, I know I'm getting better. One day you may even understand what I'm saying without having to look at it like you normally do. That will happen when I get psychic powers, but you'll have to wait a while for that moment. Jeeze, I really hated that sentence. It felt like it dragged in the wrong places so many times over. I just really want to type out good sentences that actually have some logic attached to them, logic that makes sense.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life typing useless dribble. My writing has to be useful to at least one person in the world for it to be worth writing. Why do I say that, you may ask? I don't know why I say that. Actually I do, but my brain's going through this I don't know phase that I have a feeling will end eventually when it gets bored of saying it, so bear the repetitiveness. I see the way towards the lovely road made of beautiful dirt, but the sun is blinding my path, so I can't tell that there's a monster running in the opposite direction of my walk.

I see that you are bored, so I'll change this up a little bit.

I've begun to notice that since I've semi-taken up following politics, I've been noticing movies in more economic ways than before. I can't think of any examples on the spot, but perhaps one will come blabbing out of my wriggling fingers at some point before the end of this paragraph. I drove my sisters down to somewhere half-way between here, Sacramento, and L.A. a few weeks ago, and during that drive, I saw a ton of empty land and a ton more of farmland and it got me to thinking that California is a big part of the U.S. economy. Something definitely felt wrong about that sentence. I can't stop getting this urge to feel bad about the way I'm writing now, even though this is the blablabla of my brain in an almost unedited mess. I need to drink some water at some point. I need to lift the band up. Damn, Finnegans Wake has gotten to me again. Wow, it must be from me reading it so many times. I haven't even gotten past the second chapter yet, but the first one is so interesting that it sucks me in to the point where I have to read it again just to see if I can catch more in with the sligthly bigger net I've added perhaps an inch or less of rope to. Fish of knowledge seem easier to catch nonetheless, so I guess reading it is good for me.

Let me see, I flew today, speechwise of course, by giving suggestions for a silly fake declaration people are going to make to random classes in my school, which, I must admit, was fun. Perhaps it made me want to right this.

I need to get something out of my mouth before I talk, metaphorically, of course. *spit* Okay, here we go. I need some good gold to hunt for while I'm on the chase of my freedom. Perhaps I can find some somewhere in this prison cave they've placed me in. It's so dark that I can hardly see anything. A glimmer of lite shines so far away from me that it looks like a small dot of nothingness, but I decide to follow it because I am bored and I desire to see something whether it be bad or good. The walk is long and treacherous, and my feet get very tired by the time light becomes the size of a golf ball, so I sit down to rest. The dripping sounds around me are somewhat comforting, but at the same time keep me in a state of caution because the remind me of the drips of blood I never witnessed when my parents weren't murdered by a madman because I was imagining things and had to go to the doctor; oh, I digress. I hear the sound of steps far away from the direction I came and decide not to find out who or what is making them, but stay away from said apparition by continuing my walk toward the light. I here the steps behind me moving at the same pace that I do, so I pick up mine a little, which causes it to pick up as well. This copycatness makes me think some sort of sound mirror is sitting behind me and I'm on a treadmill of hatred or some nonsense like that, so I stop to see if the person or whatever the hell it is behind me does the same thing, fortunately and unfortunately, I am not crazy, for the sound continues as I stay. I continue my walk toward the light, looking at it it, longing for it more and more the closer I get, but I trip on a stalagmite and fall on my face. A length of time, perhaps a minute, perhaps an hour, I'm in too much pain to measure the length, passes, and I awake from my trance of concentration on it. I try to get up, but my right leg, the one that hit the stalagmite, refuses to move. I hear the steps behind me, which sound awfully closer than they did before I tripped, and yell out to whatever it is behind me, asking for help. My cry has obviously done something, for the pace of the steps increase. Whether the creator of the sound be a monster come to devour me or a man come to save me doesn't matter at all at this moment. I need some sort of thing to happen, or I'll die of boredom.

And that's the bare end of my pretty little story. Lovely, ain't it?