I am like one who died young: all my life might have been.

As one may have gathered from the tad depressing title, I have been feeling rather artistic and thoughtful lately. The usual quotes are still meant to induce laughter, but I thought as a nice treat I might post something that I wrote midday Thursday.

On another note, advertising is a good thing amongst friends, I think, so if any one of you lovely readers would like to link my site on your lifejournals or... [shudder] myspaces, that would be fab and I would reward you in some way. I do not know what that is yet, but all in time, loves. All in time.


"When i was a child, I thought as a child, i spoke as a child and I acted as a child. And when I became an adult I put away childish thing. Until I could use my underage technically to my advantage in bringing down an example of the corrupt greedy capitalist institution."

"Our Latin sentences: people licking each other and others being mad about it."

"Perfect passive Present Infinitive: to be is done."

"BENEOR!" and "OPTISSISSIME!" [I guess you have to be a Latin student.]

"I'm really picky about what I put in my mouth... That was awkward. I don't just put anyo-thing in my mouth."

"[Homophobia] is a psychological allergicness."

"And what's the moral? Lie to your children."

"She's a little bundle of joy this tall."
"That swears."

"I hate telephones! I hate not being able to teleport!"


This is my little diddy I wrote on Thursday. It's nice read, but to get the full-blown feeling and idea it is better expressed when spoken. My little monologue, if you will.

The end of a book or series or journey is always depressing. You start out kind of awkward, not really knowing where you’re going, and somewhere you find out or decide where you are supposed to be going and you make your way there. And along the way, you meet a person or multiple persons who help or hinder you on your way. You share time and events with them and enjoy or despise them. And you see part of yourself in them, and that makes them less than static. They’re no longer outside in the unknown: they’re a vision or a voice inside your head at which you can laugh or cry or smile or scream when they appear again after their departure forthwith. You get attached to the characters, and when your time together is over, it’s sad. Like losing a friend. As a writer, it becomes worse. Not only do your newfound friends depart or get lost or die, but you created them. They are like your family and your loved ones, and when they depart, all you have left of them are memories and misled ‘what if?’s. No matter how objective you try to remain, part of your essence is taken with them. It’s like losing a friend. It depresses me. I’ve gained and lost a lot of friends…