Journal Four!

9-30-05

Yo yo yo. What it is, motherfuckers.

Alright, that propr sentence is really a quote. I am in no way insinuating that you share that type of relationship with your mother. Because, seriously, that insult is one of the most disgusting things imaginable. But let's not dwell on the unpleasant nature of Oedipus. We're here for business.

And that business always eludes me. Maybe if I wrote for myself instead of for you, I'd have a higher success rate, but I doubt it. Writing is writing, in my eyes, no matter the mood.

In fact, I was somewhat nonplussed today in class when you said how most of us should feel like it's more 'profound' when we write when we're sad. Like, it means more, because we're sad. Personally, I think that's complete bullshit. For me, there is little difference between my moods. I am a rather constant person, and I like to think it reflects in my writing. I mean, the only thing I remember having written that even hints at melancholy is that paper 'Salute' I wrote last year about Brad.

Where to go next? I already touched on my dead pal, I mean, if I chose to continue it I'm sure I could find something meaningful to write about. However, any words I could put to this bastard sheet of paper would be wholly inadequate, so I shan't bother. Not to say that thinking about him depresses me, or anything. In fact, it's more of an odd calm. Not that I think he's in a better place. I remain almost completely atheistic, though it would probably be more accurate to call myself an agnostic.

But that brings me to my next point. Religion. It sucks, and I hate it. I have often before said to my friends that, "Faith is the bastion of fools", and some of them agree with me, but I'm not exactly militant about it. I respect their natures, but when we get into debates involving the topic, I'm not shy about saying what I think about it.

Well, I have almost exactly ten minutes left, and I have a killer headache. My brother's attempt at warbling doesn't help at all, I'm sure. I'm trying to drown him out with music, but it doesn't work. I can hear his off key caterwauling from all over the house, and I fear I'll have to choke a bitch before the night's out. If I can bring myself to wrap my hands around his greasy throat. Ugh.

Oh ho! An interesting song just came up on my playlist, and I think I can ignore my brother now. "Rape Me'', by Nirvana. An interesting piece, all things considered. Even if it can be a little disturbing. But, hey, it's Nirvana. It reminds me all to much of how Courtney Love sucks. She did it, and she knows it. Her and OJ are best friends.

Music is important, as you well know. I still remember that music activity we did last year in creative writing two. Why do all of my journal entries hint at the ramblings of a reminescing old man? Ah, well. Fond memories are always pleasant to dwell on, and I have only one memory that is not of that variety in your class, by no fault of yours. It was that one Lisa girl in CW I last year, who apparently hated me so badly, even if Mark was my pal. She was a total cunt, if you'll forgive my language. Again.

Some people are like that, though, and nothing I could do is going to change it. But they shouldn't expect me to walk on eggshells just to please their over-inflated ego. Ah, well. It's not quite fifteen minutes yet, but I think I'm finished for now. I'm going to go take a nap.