What will it be tonight, I wonder. Grandiose whining? Existential musing? Fluffy comic observations?

I just deleted quite a bit of writing, although this time it wasn't a horrible-horrible accident. I still don't know exactly what I want to write about, so you're going to have to bear with me as I attempt stream-of-consciousness style, with no idea of what, exactly, that style is.

I imagine it begins first with perception, the stream-of-consciousness writer is like a character just coming to after a swift kick to the head, and everything is fuzzy. I can feel my gangly legs, which don't really run correctly, or walk correctly, or do anything requiring coordination, and I can feel the dry taste in my mouth; it's desert dry though- I'm not wearing the plastic-retainer thing I'm supposed to wear at night because in the morning it tastes like dead fish and I wonder if that's what my mouth tastes like.

The mouth is an interesting area, although I don't think my interest would define me as orally-fixated. I findle with keys and pencils and little things near my hands, though, whatever Freudian category that is. I forget. It was in Firestarter, my answer, but already the little details of that book are fading away.

That's what always bugs me about reading books. I can't remember them, well, besides the basics and plot line, after a few months. It makes me wonder if I'll reach a point where I don't need to buy any more books, and I'm just reading the same ones in a constant loop. Reading and remembering.

My hands, that's right. Constantly fiddling, or typing. I think they want to type, which is good. When I'm older I suspect I'll get Parkenson's or Parkinson's or Parkensen's (any one of those terrible diseases) because my hands don't want to stay in one place and I'm not sure I'll be able to control that forever.

The tactile impressions of my fingers on the keyboard are quick and fleeting. Like touching your fingers to dice and pulling them away very quickly, like when someone says it's not your turn when you're playing Monopoly. When I'm playing Monopoly.

I rule at Monopoly. Ask anyone. My brother and I would always play when I was younger, my brothers and I, I guess I should say, but Josh never really stood a chance. It always came down to someone buying Boardwalk from someone else; we determined the selling price by how many times they'd have to go around the board to catch up.

I usually made Matt go around four or five times, but Matt was brutal. I think he wanted to keep Boardwalk, but for some reason the person who landed on it always traded it away. He made me go around the board six or seven or eight times, and sometimes that was enough to let him win the game.

Not usually though. My wrists are slimy. I don't really sweat much, partially because I'm a lazy inactive blob, but just naturally I don't avoid it. I guess they're not really slimy, my wrists. A better description would be that they're sticking to the keyboard, the way skin just sticks to things. It does.

I keep flashing back or remembering a Kids In The Hall skit I've never seen, that Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door told me once. This guy, in a blue shirt I imagine in my imagining-bucket, is in a room with a woman, and he's talking about imagining.

He says: I imagine an Umpa-Band.

She says: Why?

He says: What do you mean, why?

She says: Why an Umpa-Band? Why not something else?

He says: You can imagine something else? All I see when I close my eyes is this Umpa-Band.

It's kind of funny, but I think a lot of what makes things funny is, well, I don't know. Statements like that I want to be thoughtful about, but I really aren't, I can but I don't want to figure it out right now. It's tired and my eyes are sore.

I suppose I should eventually get to lunch today, because I sat next to The Astrologer and some girls whose names I'll probably never learn. I feel rude, and they probably feel offended, but honestly they seem to be the passive ones, anyways. The people I talk to: I usually remember their names. Lunch today, you see, at lunch with The Astrologer we reminisced. Wait, new paragraph.

This is one of those things that'd been in the back of my head all day, I was tinkering with the phrasing and everything, trying to make it more exciting, so that's the version here. What happened, colored by (hopefully) my writing.

I've been lazy with my writing lately. I bet you thought I'd start the story now. I don't feel like it, I don't care. That's the problem with my writing, beyond the general sloppyness or tedious perfectionism (Graham and I both refer to our systems as lazy perfectionism, which I think we coined in 6th grade or something. A while ago at least).

Beyond that, it's my not-feeling-like-it that worries me; some days I don't want to write. Still not to the story. I did this before with the Structures thing, but I figure anyone who can slug through this prose, slog through this prose I mean, doesn't care about coherency. Some days I'm not motivated, and I'd apologize but I owe you nothing, and I don't feel like writing, which is a problem. I want to be a writer, partially because I'm good at it and I like it but/and because other people might like it too. I've been saying I'm a writer for so long, and the stuff I'm working on doesn't get anywhere. It exists, and it's meaty, but it's not growing like it should. I've been saying I'm a writer and sometimes that's the most important thing, just saying it. It keeps me motivated but the hard times are when it doesn't. My writing is still good, I hope, but it doesn't get written.

I have an image in my head of unwritten thoughts, like the Trash Compactor on the Death Star or some other swampy rubbish heap (for rubbish is what we call trash we pretend we're not throwing away) and it's full of drowning characters and dead ideas and a white kitten and so many premises. And it all stays there, and some of it suffers but most of it is dead. I don't like sending things to that place. I'm one of those people who, if he has a 'witty' comment, will say it long after the proper time, if that's the first chance he has, because it's just important that I get it out.

I guess that makes me an exhibitionist at heart; I really think we all are because the bible makes it pretty clear that "When you pray, pray not as the hypocrites do, but rather, go into your closet and pray there in secret", which I take it to mean that communal prayer isn't encouraged, but you really don't see Christians listening to that message, which for me means that something fundamental in human nature won't let them. They need to be seen to be good, I guess.

Other people and exhibitionism, is everything, that's the premise of a Futurama episode I've watched too many times (3). What's a writer that doesn't want to write all the time? I suppose none of them did, really, except maybe Milton, that chauvinistic writing-god. It's something that they need to do, but I'm not expanding that thought, because that way lies bombasticness. No writing lab for Dan, that sort of thing.

The story. It kind of made my day; today this blog came full circle, touching back not only to Lawrence (which it did previously) but to one of my actual characters, and I suppose it's wrong somehow to call a real person a character but o well: The Astrologer, who thought I was writing, well, I don't know what. I don't know either. This isn't stream-of-consciousness and it's sloppy and its too long. Anyways, that's my day.

I went to the radio show, which was also my day but more of my night, and wow that first part of this sentence should be cut into pieces and fed to four nasty dogs. Yes, the radio show was good and tomorrow I'm going to school and getting a haircut before I help out The D.J.

O.K, I've had enough. My head hurts and my eyes are tired. Time to end this farce, but I remember that my original motto was "Everyone Loves A Farce!" so I hope you liked it. I didn't, really, it was like War and Peace -too much detail and rambling and only that good part with the fat peasant dying, tucked right in the middle of so much rubbish. Well, anyways, later.