Sucks when it hits you:
The only problems I can't fix are my own.

As simple as it sounds, can you say it this and mean it:
I'll save my life for something good.

You know what, it took me fifteen years to finally diagnose myself. I've got some sort of fear of a blank canvas. I think there's a scientific name for it. Something like "an artist," or something like that. There's a cure. It's called "a good artist." Can't wait to get me some of that. But until then, you'll have to wait until I've got something important to say before I say anything. That's just how it goes -- but don't count me among the dead, because they'll bury me in the snow.

I'm beginning to think Job is my book. I'm beginning to think a lot of things. Like puzzles are fun, dogs are still cute, cute is still good, bombs still aren't my friends, jobs are still in, my eyes might always burn, i'm going to need more sleep, Arrested Development makes me laugh, Starbucks is just down the road, a breakdown may be in order, tickets will be sold, I'll be going to Cornerstone, hopefully, math is just that thing you have to do, I could name my kids right now, I can learn how to play songs that means something (no offence, Claire de Lune, Hot Cross Buns, the works), that "everything feels like the movies" (but not in the way I want it to), and that you just might be too Real. Yeah. Too Real, too Right, too Much, too Good, too late. Just, honestly, too too late.


- Lost my arm
On the Animal Farm,
andy