... is what I feel like doing.

Know why it takes me so long to write something? Well yes, I'm lazy. You didn't have to point out something so obvious. But seriously, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that things might not turn out like how I intend them. I'm afraid I might end up butchering something that seems so pristine in my mind. I'm afraid that what I write won't be solid gold for the masses to boil down and mint into colletor's currency, you know, the kind that they advertise on tv that comes with a primp little certificate stating its mint number and authenticity in a perfect little frame for you to put on your pretentious little mantle as a conversation piece to share with your friends about how you managed to come across such a fine piece of history when they undoubtedly notice and ask...

Talk about a tangent...

Anyway, I've been struck with this primal urge to write, and that short Vicarious did nothing to satiate this compulsion. So what am I getting at here? I... honestly have to say it's breaking me. I'm beginning to not care about all those things I mentioned earlier. Who cares if what I write doesn't go where I want? Who cares if my writing doesn't instantly become the greatest conversation piece ever to grace mankind? Who give a f<tut>k if I end up butchering the ideas in my head by committing them to paper? Sure, I might be tearing off the wings of an angel in doing so, but last I checked, that only made them human, and human is much easier to relate to and a lot less intimidating in comparison.

Short of it all is I don't care anymore. I'm going to write dammit, and nothing's going to stop me. Not lack of attention, not school (thank God Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks are just around the corner), and especially not myself.

Now back to listening to Mikhail's favorite band. He's rather excited about his upcoming appearance in Rosemary, though he'd never admit to it.