...and that

I don't have the time or equalibrium required to even attempt a personal analysis of this whole mess of a shit pile under which I've found myself not feeling, not comprehending, not caring. No, for that I'm waiting for a soft and unsuspecting night of drunken reflection....until then, it aint no thing.

Hard times for nice guys

I recently (as of ten or fifteen minutes ago when one of my three roommates filled our cozy quarters with the most potent of gases, the internet crashed, I tripped on a wire heading out the door that I would be breaking in a rush of distemper, etc...) realized that one year is ample time to develope some bad habits; I mean, really blaze a path where there once was only an occasionally traveled game trail. In a moment of critical mass melt down, a flurry of obsenities followed me to the explaination provided by a fellow fumer... Iguess I went to the "pit." The pit is that place somewhere between your big and little intestinal fortitude where, in the face of promised adversity you curl up into a little ball, set the alarm (in this case, October 29th, 2009 a.m. (when we are schedualed to reenter the blossoming land of the living)) and comence Operation Functionally Catatonic/Enduring Emotional Unavailability. Needless to say, these days of realization are of a rather volitile nature...I believe the term is "hair trigger." More to come with the patience that I will no doubt need to begin cultivating.