|Notes From a Cold Room - (Warning: Very Boring; Do Not Read)
||[Oct. 4th, 2003|08:20 pm]
|||||Finkleman's 45s when I started; Indigo Girls now||]|
Is it sinful to toss a shot of Laphroaig into one's coffee? Before work?
It's been largely a frustrating few days since my previous entry, through no fault of the world, sadly enough, but only of myself.
Real writing's been confined mostly to vague concepts bouncing through my brain in the morning light, following a bowl, while attempting to fall asleep. Too god damned much time randomly perusing profiles on dating sites, too much "Collapse" at the office, too much procrastinating in general.
And so, in hopes of stimulating myself, I find myself babbling pointless here, desperately seeking a narrative thread, or even a reason to stop using so many commas.
On the bright side of things, my skate was finally ready this afternoon.
I hopped on ye olde bicycle and picked it up as soon as I awoke. The new blade looks mighty fine and I can't wait for Monday morning's game. Hockey isn't a religion with me, but it's a mighty fine form of meditation.
Shit. This is fucking pointless. I'm not even going to bother spell-checking it.