This is ludicrous old. (1864 days since I've joined.) I'd recommend just leaving.

edit: I lurked myself for once and found things were a lot less embarrassing than I thought, after 2003 or so. I think it's good that I had so much change happen. I still miss Jeane, though, I mentioned her in my very first entry ever. We talked for a while, but now we don't, and I guess my stepmom is good to talk to, as well.  They're both pretty balanced people, not vain or obsessive, though I imagine I'm kind of stuck a bit in those anyway by nature/genes.

I've moved three times since last updating. From Germany to PA, which was mentioned, but then from PA to Georgia (Cartersville), then to Atlanta, and I'm somewhere miserable now. I plan to get out as soon as possible.

I've been thinking a good bit, about nothing, about how fantastic a little bit of nothing can be. And each time I go to write it down, every time I go to type it out somewhere, something stops it, someone asks me what it is that I'm doing. And now, now that I can finally try to get it out, all the words rush away from me. Or they're just stopped. There's a sound, a setting, I think, that could match the feeling;

A drummer. Focused only upon the cymbal. Eyes barely above the brim, his face taut, his hands begin to tremble a little, causing the faintest sound to seep, louder. Louder. More intensity, more motions. Still getting louder. Just when you think, "He's going to leap up and strike it with all the muscle he can muster!" A hand darts out and silences it.

That's pretty much how I communicate. Just when I'm about to say everything, I stop! and say nothing.

I'm not so sure why. Maybe, maybe words, maybe nothing is enough to adequately express my ideas and thoughts, and (mostly) how I percieve them. I guess that it's pretty hard to do that for anyone, and that's just, how writing happens.

Earlier;
I thought I was in a race. On a vivid lime green bicycle, my hair - cropped, angry, blonde. I was fiercely competitive. I was lathering my hair in the shower. White impersonal tiles everywhere; at least it wasn't junky or tacky. And fish. A bright warm day, the sun beating on the dirty track -- why are we going in a loop? It's a bikerace! Not horses, not cars. Rinsing out the lather. It's night. Around eight thirty. So much to do, so much to say. No time for any of it. I'd forget it all.

And I did.

(I'm sorry for that. I decided here was best, I don't think I've used this for a while -- I guess long enough for anyone to pass this over.)