Lots of Monkeys

Whenever I’m angry with someone and I talk to them, it always turns into a conversation about my inner self and my inability to open up to others?

“You have to do some introspection.” “You’re too perfect.” “You’re arrogant.” “You have to consider other people’s feelings.”

“You’re (insert fuzzy new age crap about ‘finding yourself’ which I’m sick of hearing).”

I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’ve grown a bit cynical, but why do they always focus on me, like it’s my fault. Me. Me. Me. The world doesn’t revolve around me, people. Maybe we should take a look at you for a change–hell, maybe you did something wrong for once. Maybe you got upset for something you think I said. Maybe you blew everything out of proportion, maybe even thinking I had some sort of hidden agenda–all I wanted to do was talk

Or it could be me trying to make your life a miserable hell on earth.

So. Arrogant, self-serving bastard who looks forward to nothing else but making your life a pit of despair–or to paraphrase a friend of mine, “Just a boy looking for your love.”

You decide.

Oh yeah. Found this interesting site on the web.

Hey, that card just spawned XP native drivers.

*blink* *checks ass* “Whew!”

Drum roll please, and in no particular order.

• To win the lottery.
• For this wireless network card to miraculously spawn XP native drivers.
• | that missing thing that I haven’t figured out yet, but I know I’m unhappy without. |
• Respect.
• Trust.

Likelihood of my getting any of these things is best summed up by this statement:
“And maybe if my butt were bigger, it wouldn’t hurt so much when all the pigs with wings fly out of it.”

I really don’t want to use words as weapons. I think it’s bad form. Nisa pointed this out on her site. But then again, this is the whole blogging phenomenon. For some, it’s the only outlet. I’m not asking for forgiveness, nor am I attempting to explain away an action. I just need to vent.

In no particular order.

• For it to rain.
• For this wireless network card I’m working on to work and not work simultaneously.
• Drama.
• Drama.
• Drama.

So, I’m thinking. Which by itself is “a dangerous pastime, I know.” And I’m listening to The Producers Original Broadway cast recording. The journal lies unused. I haven’t written anything in a long, long time. Nothing of consequence, anyway. I have a tendency to write little storylets–characterizations, events, bits of dialogue–that don’t seem to be connected to one another.

Maybe I’m just not focusing. | inner voice: Ya think?! |

I’d like to finish something for once. Anything. Something all the way to completion. Which was why Write Club was nice. Granted, I never really had anything to contribute, but seeing people with works in progress was quite inspiring.

Do I need more time to write? No. My social life (or lack thereof) attests to that fact. There’s plenty of time. There’s a bit of weak spirit. I know that for a fact. Not a lack of ability, but a lack of confidence in it. Ironic, that I’m writing these thoughts out.