Like Confidences Told Over Kitchen Tables.

Mood: Pessimistic.
Music: "Hallelujah" - Rufus Wainwright

Good books inspire me to write books and stories; sad piano music makes me want to write poems and novellas; good movies make me want to write music and epic plays.
People discourage me, though.
And people wrote that sad piano music and those good movies and books.
Paradoxical. Ridiculous. Selfish. Misunderstood. Pining, greedy, greedy, greedy people.

I want world peace (fuck you, Egypt).
An imaginary friend (like Tica Tee).
Enough time to read until the day I die.

I want a lot these days, but I'll never say it out loud. I refuse to ever say it out loud. People might actually like that better. If I pretend to not care what people dish to me (or, worse, what they don't), maybe I'll get by even better.

I'm not sinking back into that emo universe that ensnared and gnawed at me during middle school; I had good reason to dislike my situation then. At this point, though, when it's all induced my perpetual indifference:

I'll just throw it right back into your face.

Maybe Franz Kafka's right. If I sit back and relax, maybe the world will unfurl before my feet and reveal the truth with less than a single parting of my lips.

On a more academic note, I'm going to do a children's story book about the love story of Cupid and Psyche. It's a sad one, but ends happily. Travis, read it; it's tasty.