If you caaaaaaaaaan......

Sweet hell, Amanda Palmer's "Want It Back" is ripping my guts into pieces. If they still made cassette singles, I would have worn it out.

I am a total sap when it comes to relationships, and I clung tightly to the Smiths like so many moody 80's babies.  I have my own place, car, job that pays the bills, but I never stopped being 15 and spending shit-tons of money on new tapes and CD's.

The Amanda (don't call me Robert) Palmer track was fucking time travel. Not soundwise, but getting that giddy feeling that you're part of something special. Where does that magic go? As people grow older, the rational robs the world of the uninhibited bare-bones rush of new experience? Is nothing new, or do we stop looking for it? Or run as fast as we can when we find it?

I don't know what it's like to be pursued or chased. Would I be flattered or annoyed? I've been in the other car every time. I'm tired of being in this race, period. Those games people play in high school don't change. The players only get better.

This might as well be bad breakup poetry at this point. I'm no different. Glass houses and such.

I'll be back.  Maybe I'll invest in a proper keyboard at some point.

First entry.

I'm typing this on a touch screen tablet and it's already a gigantic pain in the ass.  I don't even know why I'm doing this other than I'm perpetually late to the party. By the time I knew what MySpace was, it had fallen out of fashion.

I like writing. I like the idea of an audience. Right now, this is solely a vanity project to write whatever I feel like writing.  Enjoying it yet?

I see the feedback tab in the corner. I have a codependent relationship with that. Do You ever get jealous on Facebook? I have. Post something insightful, a song ("listen to the words, man") or a funny picture and you get nothing! I hate to admit my own narcissism and vanity to anyone. I realize what a pile of horseshit that previous sentence is since I started a fucking blog to tell you.

Deep breathes. Wowie kazowie, this is therapeutic!  I'm saving a fortune, just venting to this empty page and a possible few strangers...

See that? It's always about me. Not that you might enjoy it, but that I will be read.

Jesus. I almost added "and understood." I'm going to make myself throw up.

Brass tacks time. I'm not that hard to understand.  I hate cliches but like to make up my own.  Here:

"My ego and I are distant lovers, but we see each other now and then."

Gold, right?  Right. 

More later. I'm not getting paid to do this.