It's almost Saturday. Fuck it.

I'm sitting here watching the simpsons and eating triscuit crackers. Thinking, wondering. Thinking about how complex this life can be sometimes. Not even complex, just, fuckin strange. I'll sit here and want to write some new poetry but it won't come. It's important not to force it. Otherwise, it'll come out all fake, but that's just me. If I write something sad, I have to be sad to write it, you know? Otherwise it doesn't feel real to me.

But I often think, "Is that what's important to me? Things that are real? Then why do I spend so much time in a fantasy world of video games and music and tv?" But then I'll slip into a way of thinking like, "Eh, it's not important. I've always done things this way because its what feels right for me. Just chill. Take it easy. Quit over analyzing things."

I don't even know where I'm going with this. Just brain vomit I suppose.