Today was boring.  Or yesterday was boring.  Pick one, it's almost 5 AM.  I am not sleeping because I am never sleeping at this hour.  It's not that I want to be awake, but you know, if I sleep eight hours a day, I'll have slept 30 years of my life away at age 90.  That's 30 years that would have otherwise been wasted sitting on the computer typing up pointless online journal entries and doing the myspace/facebook thing, as well as playing computer games that contain brutally violent imagery because I find joy in severing the head of a helpless citizen with a shovel and playing kick-the-cranium before urinating on the corpse to put out the flames.  I forgot to mention, I set it on fire.  Sleep?  Why?  I mean, really, I could be playing my bass and annoying my neighbors with the vibrations my 70 watt amplifier sends through the walls by playing a terrible random collection of notes I refer to as 'improvising.'  Also known as 'shit.'

    Now, if you're one of the...two people who are allowed to read my entries, then you're probably wondering what is wrong with me.  Well,  I'll tell you.  Not a damn thing.  Madness, isn't it?  No, this is sparta.  I still haven't seen that movie.  Some people think I should kill myself for that very reason.  Those people need to go to hell, and if they need help, I'll provide it in the form of a sledgehammer and a Ricky Martin album.  The album is because I believe if I torture their ears first, it will make crushing their skulls seem like a blessing.  Still think there's something wrong with me, huh?  Well, I'm fine.  Really, I really really am.  That would be two 'really's,'  I mean, if that doesn't tell you I'm fine, I really have no idea what will.  Go ahead,  count'em.  There are two really's there.  Well, three, really.  Hey, there's four.  I'm not counting the times I said it to point out how many there were.  That's just silly.

    What was I doing?  Sandwich...monkey...banana...pigeon...profanity filter...giraffe...why am I thinking about animals...murder...kitchen knife...penguin...bloodsplatter...kitchen tile...fridge...ham...pig...butter...giant robot....

    My eyes are doing weird things.  Like...trying to close.  Why would they be doing that?  I already told them to stay open an hour ago, and we had an agreement.  I promised them if they would stay open, then I wouldn't stab them with a toothpick, and they looked at me and nodded, because eyes can't talk.  They don't have mouths.  Hey, moths are pretty cool.  Not mouths, moths.  It wasn't a typo.

    I'm sittin' in a chair, thinkin' bout my hair, cause it be growin' out my head, an it'll still be there when I'm dead, but it'll be old an' stringy, and the bugs'll be all clingy, cause I won't have time to shower, I'll be dead every single hour.

    Now, what you are witnessing by reading this is something that is both rarely seen and viewed constantly on a daily basis.  How that is possible is a mystery of physics and anthromorphic abstraction.  Those are two random words, and they're probably misspelled.  Misspell has two S's.  Mispell is wrong.  Don't spell it like that unless we, as a group, decide that all double S'd words be minus one S.  Then you can spell it like that.  But we're not gonna decide that, so spell it right or I'll eat your eyes like tater tots.

    I'm going to go get my new bass tomorrow.  It's going to be blue, and it has four strings.  It doesn't have five strings, because it has four and I wanted four.  I don't like fives.  Like this movie I almost saw with Natalie Portman, she didn't like fives because she was raped when she was five or it was five o'clock when she tripped over a brick and then stubbed her toe...or something like that.  It had something to do with five, so it was the five's fault.  Five did it.  Blame five.  Oh.  I don't like fives, because I like fours better.  This bass is going to be blue, and I said that, but I don't feel like using the backspace button.  I've been using it, but I'm not gonna use it anymore.  Not for this entry, anyway.  I think I'm just gonna let things go as they come out.

What the hell am I doing?  SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING MORONIC PSYCHOPATHIC PIECE OF HUMAN GARBAGE YOU MAKE ME SICK AND I'LL RIP YOUR TONGUE OUT IF YOU DON'T STOP SPOUTING OUT ALL THIS POINTLESS BULLSHIT.

Okay.  I think I'm insane.  A serious lunatic.  It's possible I should be wearing a white jacket that makes me hug myself.  I like mental hospitals.  I want to escape from one.  White marble tile looks better when drenched with blood.  Or cherry sauce.  Something red with a nice smooth texture.

All this, and I'm perfectly fine.  Have a nice day.  I just thought I'd type something up.  This is what happens when I do that.  This one is going to be public, because I don't really care.