I've so distorted my reality, that, when I think about it, I probably should just stop distorting reality and face facts that reality is harsh ...

You know, if I start making less sense, it will probably make up for all the time I've lost trying to craft nonsense.

Now, if that made sense, something's pretty unbelievably wrong.

Pardon me, I'm still trying to get used to letting the valve on my mind stay open for quick bursts of machine gun fire.

OK, the literal and figurative sense is out of whack (by the way, this entire craze of blogging, I just can't get behind it, even though I'm doing it -- which kinda defeats the purpose of taking a stand against it and, in essence, just tears down my entire argument against it and makes me look pretty foolish) and the time it takes me to construct an entire "facade" of lies and exaggerations has surpassed the time it takes me to derive pleasure from my id.

So, that's why I don't make any sense. But, I'll ask a bit of a deep rhetorical question: Do any of us make sense? And, to muddle things more, I refuse to answer that.

I'm not sure where this is headed, but this is the danger of openly opening up yourself.

What I listened to while writing this: Gouge Away, Pixies; Morning Bell, Radiohead