. . .

Noise

The noise will never cease. It pounds merrily away in my head, daring me to ignore it. I will, though. I need to. If not, I may never write again. I need to write.

It's not that writing is like a drug, for me. Or if it's a drug, it's like a heart drug. Something that I never remember to take, but I need to take to survive. Most of the time, it's an effort just to get out of bed, much less go to the effort required to ingest it. I feel like I'm drowning in La Z.

So I'm not going to write a story, at this point. I need to get myself all writy again, I need to get used to instituting the concept -> fleshing out -> hands -> computer screen flow chart again. Moving thoughts into the outside world. Perfection is possible. I've got some free time, I might as well achieve it.

I'm hungry. I shouldn't be. I et not too terribly much longer in the past from now, and it was sufficient unto the day [and the evils thereof]. One (1) slice of thickass Pizz'aass Chicagoass pizzaass. Tasty! And them some ice cream. I'm sorry, 'sorbet'. We must name things properly, after all. Failure to name proper-like is a sign that there's a brainblockage of some nature. Possibly my nose is backed up into my brain. It would explain the phlegm.

You don't understand, though. Not really. It would be impossible for you to do so without actually inhabiting my mind and watching. If so: hi! Welcome to the show. I'm your host, but I've been the host before! I want a chance to be Vanna! All right, you be Vanna. Yay! "Care to hazard a guess?" "Well, I'm only guessing, but is the phrase "The bullet struck him in the right side of the abdomen, just above the groinal area"? "You're absolutely correct!" "Hey!" This from the opponent. "That has more than one N in it." "You're absolutely correct!"

I don't think I'll let anyone see this. It isn't brilliantly shaded in any of the three major food groups, nor does it display \/im, \/igor, and \/erve. I'm not even Zen. I just am writing my train of consciousness. Stream of thought. Why bother? I'll explain. I was born a... no, too Steve Martin. I think I... no, too children's story. I wish I was a little bar of soap, bar of soap, oh I wish I was a little bar of soap, bar of soap, I'd go shiney shiney shiney over everybody's hiney oh I wish I was a little bar of soap! I blaime Amelia. If it weren't for her, I'd have been long dead and rotten, But! I wouldn't have heard that damn song.

Why am I being quite so counter-workish? I'm putting off to the Last Possible Moment the time when I get to show my Brilliance in any form. Homework? Who needs it? I do, if I'm to get into college. I lie. My homework is likely to make no difference whatsoever at this point. Well. We shall notice and see the end and beginning, and until then, pour out onto the printed page anything that comes along, and hope nobody notices. I wish I had that idea now. A good idea would be mighty tasty right around these here parts. I can type! Type without even having my eyes open! I am a GOD!