Journal Two!

Once again we make a foray into the magical, whimsical land that is my cerebral cortex. You know, that strange, fancy filled place that has a two way gate leading directly to that most terrible place that is, by all accounts, owned by Ted Turner; a place where, in accordance with the myriad groups of eco-terrorists controlling my mind , Captain Planet plays constantly.

Earth!

Fire!

Wind!

Water!

Heart!

Goooooooooooooooo planet! Captain Planet, he's a hero. He's gonna bring pollution down to zero! Gotta help him put asunder, bad guys who want to LOOTEN' PLUNDER!

Alright, seriously. This is the shit that has to stop. This is what happens to me when I let my fingers be a direct link from my brain, without the natural censor that the majority of humanity imposes upon themselves for the hopeful betterment of their fellow man. Or, more likely accurately, to keep their fat faces from being bashed in when they tell the wrong gaggle of girls who constantly hover around my... Er... Their locker to go stuff their booze and sex when they won't move after a kind request, well...

Ah, fuck. I lost my train of thought. That happens often enough these days. Wandering from topic to topic as I am so often fond of doing. I remember back last year, while reading a journal entry similar to the two of these, that you had made a comment that was something along the lines of "Adam has mastered the art of the 'train of thought' style of journaling". Personally, I think this is one of the easiest things in the world. Even this excercise, designed to help me, and the other, considerably less nerdy students, write every day, falls short of the writing I do daily.

If I have internet access, I write for at least two hours a day. I'm an involved member of several online forums of my peers, most of which don't use that horrid netspeak, and I have contacts all over the world. Technology is neat.

And, looking back on my previous entry, at least a little, I realize that it was no where near fifteen minutes of writing. It was fifteen minutes at the computer, nothing more. This is seven minutes of writing up until this point, and my fingers have been moving non stop since I had entered in 'once again'.

At this point, I wonder on the spelling and grammar of my previous words, sentences, paragraphs, and quotes from eco-friendly cartoons. I normally never use a spell checking program, nor do I make very many typos that aren't instantly corrected with a reflexive backspace hit. I don't even look at the screen to know that I've made an error. I mean, Jesus. Sometimes I should let a mistake go, right?

But no! I shan't lose hold of my anal grasp of my native tongue! For, if I do, I become what I hate! An illiterate net nerd who cares not for the appearance of his prose, not caring how it reflects back at him. I pray to the god that nestles deep within my nose hairs that that never happens.

And, to be honest, it's not really a god. It's more of a gnome.

That I made up.

Hey.

Hey.

Hey.

...

Shut up.

Don't you knock my gnome, Tholen.

Alright, now my brother's talking. Do I tune him out, or answer him absently as I write? I elected the latter. What he says isn't of much import, anyways, being an antisocial child who cares for nought but his own entertainment at times. He closely resembles my older sister, who neglects friends, family, and even dropped out of school in favor of her self imposed electronic prison. She's older than you, and she's a cashier at Target.

Yet, somehow, she's getting married. Ah, well. I won't question it, nor will I offer her any more advice. She sees advice from one many years her junior as condescending, whether or not it be founded in logic.

All I can do is make sure that I don't follow her path. When I finally get my life back in order, get constant, regular sleep and excercise, and keep a passing grade throughout all my classes, and, as I so dream, go to college in Sweden to teach there, then, and only then, will I be worthy to lecture my sister.

Oh, how it will be sweet. And yes, I did say Sweden. Or, more accurately, Sverige, as they call it. Pronounced Sver-ee-yay. That's really about all the Svenska, er, Swedish I know at the moment. Save for the word for 'meatball', and the phrase that lets me ask for beer. So I'll never be hungry or sober during my first few weeks. Joy of joys.

Anyhow, now it is exactly 9:19 P.M. Meaning that I'm totally done writing, and I've hardly cussed at all. Neat, huh?