I've decided that since my brain is mush, and I can't come up with a new thought to save my pathetic life, I'm going to rehash some old myspace blogs for your (all 3 of you) enjoyment. So here: read my shit.
So anyway, it seems I haven't written anything in a while, and I know how disappointing that must be to the 2 people who read my senseless drivel, so I shall now give you what you both have been waiting so long for:
A mind-numbing narrative on the current state of my being - coded in obscure metaphor so you'll have no idea what I'm talking about.
My life is a mushroom. No, not that kind of mushroom, but then again, maybe it is. My mushroom resides on the cold, damp floor of a forest, shaded by a dense canopy of flora, surrounded by other mushrooms, none of them quite as plump and juicy as mine. She waits. She knows not for what she is waiting, but that's all that mushrooms can fucking do, you understand? Sometimes it rains, and when it does, the rain just puddles around her little mushroom stem, pissing her off. What can she do?
Wait. Duh.
Sometimes the mushroom catches little glimpses of sunshine through the leafy roof above. Brief moments of warmth and light. Enough to satisfy the short, dull existance of a mushroom. The wind blows. The canopy seals. The sunlight is gone.
The mushroom waits. Again.
The poor mushroom is very misunderstood. Many believe that it is a mushroom's fate to be sauteed in butter or served with pasta, but is that really all a mushroom is good for? Perhaps the mushroom does not want to be eaten? Or if she does, maybe she wants to be savored - whole and raw - just like nature intended. Perhaps mushrooms just want the chance to grow like everything else and not be plucked up before their time and thrust unceremoniously into the hungry mouths of passersby. It's quite possible that they like to sit and wait. But how should we know?
We aren't mushrooms.
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