Aaah, hello old friend :D how I do adore you, Mr Coholic. Gotta love ya, big Al. Ugh. Who am I kidding, I'm getting no sleep :( and I'll be damned if I start spewing over a blog. I do have some pride thankyouverymuch.

*sigh* ...why is everything I do a hypocritical paradox? Maybe I should blog. I dunno. It just doesn't seem like therapy to me, putting all your retarded thoughts on paper. Besides, too much sharing and caring. Life ain't no Sesame Street. People don't really play nice. And there are no happy endings.

...I almost wish I believed that. It'd be easier. But if I lose the hope what has everybody else got? Besides, I'm no quitter. Perhaps pride is a good thing, from that respect. Maybe I should stop expressing via proxy and just ADMIT I'm a little bit nuts. Who isn't, anyway.

I hate that word. Anyway. It's such a copout. Like giving up. Which I never do, but sometimes wish I did. That's a lie, too.

Tonight, I am GOING to touch my toes. While my leg is flat to the floor, I mean. Even if it breaks my hamstring. Fuck my ballet teacher. Life isn't just about boundaries. It's about breaking them. Sure, stay in your little glass box if you like. Not me. I'm breaking out and up and away. And I'll always be the strongest one in the room. Because I have to be.

Because I can. Because people should stop worrying about the 'why'. I am inebriated but I am also in complete control. It's like I constantly test myself. Addiction means you cannot control it, right? But I do. People, there is that cliche, (add the little inflection) that you can 'quit anytime you want'. Is it odd, to wish yourself to be weaker than you are? If I was a degree more pathetic, perhaps I would be able to ask for help. But I never need it. I pick myself up. And I do not mind. It's good to spend time with just yourself, occasionally. Physician, heal, know, love thyself. And I don't mean masturbation.

Sometimes I think I have so many facades, that I have no fucking clue who I am anymore.

Do you ever look in the mirror and just think, WHAT. Who dictated that my hair be red, or orange, or strawberry-blonde, or auburn, or what the fuck ever. I do like that about myself. Nobody knows what to call me. It's perfect, it reflects. I like to be intangible. Maybe that's arrogant, I don't know. People accuse me of it enough. But everything in moderation, right? All things in some retarded illusion of balance. Success is only attainable by stomping on somebody else's face. That's just a fact, be it a small African child, or a classmate, or HITLER. Hitler. He was somebodies child, lover, friend. surely, you'd think. But we can't. We can't contemplate evil. Or we might absorb it somehow. Through fucking osmosis.

But what is evil, really.

I'll tell you what evil is. It's humanity. It's the weakness we all wish we didn't have. It's what we don't want to see, or hear, or feel, or even allow to seed and grow and flourish in our brain-stems. It's a beanstalk, that's what it is. And it's not magic. It's us, as I've said before (via proxy, naturally, coward) on a tired day.

Time for sleep now. But not the eternal, no, not yet. Because every race must be run and every journey must be undertaken. I just wish there were still dragon's to slay, 'know. And am I still just a proxy? Who knows. I do believe I have lost myself along the way, in my imperfect fantasy.

...but isn't that the best kind of fantasy? The dream, the incomplete. The unspun web. The unwritten quest. The forgotten story...