<@_@>
*(vvv)*
'^^^'
(That above ^ , is supposed to look like a teethy monst'uh)
Old posts (even the drafts, yep)/pictures dictating how I've been in the past two decades, although incomplete but at least there's a harsh shmarsh-mellows reminder that the past ain't at all obsolete. I'm as careless as the act of balancing a silver tray of delicate tea cups on a loose unicycle.
I've never been on a unicycle.
If I were to keep constant records of myself and all my everyday-average-albeit-awesome-adventures, with a paper and a Kilometrico pen, I'm sure that I'd lose a large portion of em' to the merciless wrath of the washing machine. Turning my writings on paper scraps, once tugged nicely in pockets of jeans, into fluffy lints. All those years written, would go to waste. As something giddy kittens would chase (hint ; the lint <- rhyme intended).
"On a side note, receipts, order forms and spare papers (spare-pers, lowl bowlz) you will not think twice in scrunching them up for target practice, are the best kind to unleash inspiration on, somehow. The absence of fear of ruining an expensive art canvas catalyzes the whole sketching process, I guess. J.K Rowling made Harry Potter up on napkins for Severus's sake.
-Not that I'm a Potter fan'boy, just some scrap of an informative bit gathered from a "Did You Know?" trivia on, uh -somewhere."
So, here's a "Whoop'ee!" for Blogspot!
I'd like to think, this is why being a little sentimental (little? pffscheh~) have it's importance. You, consciously, or subconsciously, keep track of your own singular self. No better evaluator, second to The Creator, of your own super self, other than the owner of those eyes reading this. (y)ep.
To think, I used to write about my birthdays, and how I'd welcome the new year with a red-charactered-carpet before this. But just look at the sad, sad sight of number of posts under the year 2010. That's less than a post per month. That's less than a post per TWO months. It's unheard of to not find the slightest amount of free time as for me, in a month, to actually sit down and let thy' fingers loose.
It's pure, concentrated Procrastination Purée right here. Like a glass of bitter herbal health drink. The hard part is just to attempt to swallow it and to tame the gag reflex. A gulp later, you'd be thinking, "Hey, it ain't that bad" . And, you'd feel good, knowing that the good ol' herbal drink, despite tasting bad, is good for you. There is all to it, feeling good is good for you. Good.
So, here's me trying to write again, taking a cyber sip of that said syrup.
-Good God, do I really have to muster more metaphors on welcoming myself to write, each time. The last few posts are of the similar topic wei. Bleh. Nevermind about that.
It's obvious that I came here without a specific motive. Like an alien that's set on world domination that came with nothing - not even pants. Why don't they ever, wear pants. You have atom-altering laser blasters, but no - pants? . We should trade technology for a day. Just sayin~
As determined as that unprepared little naked Martian, I, too, would dominate this intense urge on clicking the hell out of the red "X" at the upper-right corner of this window. I, WILL- finish this post. This will not rot, in the damned dungeon of drafts.
Where am I going with this post even. I'm like a lost survivor on an exiled island, not giving a steaming shit on a still-working compass I found wedged in between a dead castaway's ribcage. A compass would not call me a rescue boat. Makes a better bait, as a compass is shiny. Edible aquatic creatures are attracted to - shiny things.
This is getting out of hand. Before I'll be mysteriously led to talking on unicorns having multi-coloured tongues, I better put a plug of pause onto this.
If all I wrote doesn't make sense, here's your two sense back. LOLZ GEDDIT.
Kill' next time. Laterz.
They'd still call me young, but I feel like I've been in this skin forever.
