Staying home alone is exactly like smoking pot. It takes you to the extreme of things.

If you want to party, you’ll party. If you wanna sit back and reminisce, you’ll remember the wickedest, scariest shit. And the never ending war between good and bad remains. If you ask anyone who’s ever known me closely, they’ll tell you the same thing; be it friend, family, or lover, no one could ever explain what’s going on in there. I am not a loner by choice, but I tend to know what clicks my buttons from time to time. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve often changed my set of friends and now that I’m running out of my twenties, I have only managed to keep one… maybe two of my childhood friends.

The truth is… I don’t know why they’re still here. :P

I have lost the privilege of making decision ages ago. All I do is listen to the two creatures sitting on my shoulders yapping, spilling their beans and fighting over the rights to my will.

It has always, always, been about right and wrong where I come from. I keep defining things, setting rules and trying so hard to break them. It’s almost hard to keep up with my quarreling ideologies, changing from time to time. Earlier today, I realized that fact. I always say that we’re all psychos; that we all need treatment, but that we deny our incoherence. I always say to myself that I’m the last surviving “normal” guy out there. Damn the ego. Funny… DEFINE NORMAL, you whiny little bastard.

You are far, far from being normal. What you got is exactly what you deserve; a big… fat… nothing sitting on top of your nose for you to envision every time you look in the mirror. I don’t even notice my new hairdo.

Just another post to satisfy your need to say something clever.

An unending series of rhetorical questions for you to observe and remember for days like this.

x ² + y² = r²

Business or accounting? This twin or the other? And the list gets longer and longer and it keeps fucking with my head, stretching it with zillions of decisions to make. So what is the point from all of this? Now fucking what?

Should I have taken that leap of faith?

My nose is bleeding again. The last time that happened was in late 1997 when I first moved back here. Take about scary pollution. B+

Lately, I’ve busied myself with Yoga Joe bender. I bought it back in May off the internet. I also bought a Yoga Jane, but she’s still locked in her box. Every morning I wake up and spend two minutes shaping him into what I want to be like. I make his mood. Sometimes I wonder how he sees me. Sometimes I wonder whether, to him, I’m a merciless owner whose sole advantage over him is my breathing lungs and flowing blood, the ability to pursue the will of the mind and make decisions … or perhaps it’s the other way around after all.

Could I be bending him just for the fun of it… to see if he can bend further before he completely breaks?

I logged into my old page today by mistake. Somehow… it doesn’t feel familiar to me anymore; but then again… neither does this stupid blue page. They say that when you live somewhere long enough, you leave your lifestyle behind. It’s like leaving a trail… like an animal; a non verbal graffiti that tells the world I WOZ HERE. Today I gave myself a private tour around my apartment. It felt like a stranger has been living there for the past week. Nothing’s in place. I DON’T BOTHER to leave my subconscious marks behind.

I used to think that this page is where I can unwind… is where I can release all the tension, all the secrets; even though I never really have. All I ever did was type random shit about certain things that I’ve always managed to keep ambiguous. Why are you reading this? Is there a fucking point in reading me? I always assumed that what goes on on the mile stays on the mile; but then again somehow… the spirit of my blog has escaped. Maybe that is the reason why I don’t feel satisfied by writing anymore. Maybe the randomness that this identity of mine ever was no longer is locked inside a computer for people to read and see and say allahomma e7fazna.

Sometimes I wonder who among my frequent readers still follow my pointless writing. I mean it’s not like emails where things can get personal.

I just read through what I’ve just written. I’ve never done that before… and the truth is… I’m on my second doc page now and it’s all been one long blah.

Grrr… should I post… should I not post.

Huh… decisions… decisions. :)

The truth is… I just wanna go gracefully.

I am back to posting just so I could feel that I am back to normal, back to my daily fucking routine. I write because I wanna feel that I do exist, to spite the two demons on my back, riding me like a tamed fuck buddy.

Be it crap or words of wisdom that anyone can relate to; tonight I write to feel accomplishment…

and that only.