Wow! Haven't been on here for nearly a year!

Was reading this book for some light summer reading...and found something which describes the stages of my writing process perfectly!

After some editing was done to it.

1. Procrastination.

2. Self-loathing re: period of time spent procrastinating.

3. Panic.

4. Hypochondria - triggered by extra adrenalin formed during Stage 3 Panic and aided by hours spent on the internet analyzing "forgetfulness" and "fatigue".

5. Fatigue.

6. Burst of creative energy so overwhelming it occasionally required years of recovery but has the fringe benefit of producing a voluminous pile of paper that can be turned into a story either by large amounts of editing from supportive friends or from the author themself who is being forced to by dominating, bossy friends.

7. Writing reduces back to natural form as piles of paper.

8. Go to stage 2 and repeat cycle.

I'm never going to write anything that will ever see the light of day and will most likely end up doing a brown-boring-desk job for the rest of my life until retirement and spend my spare time being bitter and angsting over what a bad writer I am.

I really hate birthdays.

It's a hot summer's day and at 2:00 p.m. the temperature has gone past 30 degrees Celsius. The traffic on the streets is nearly non-existent as everyone is indoors, either hiding in their cool basements or sitting close to their fans.

Benjamen unfortunately does not have a fan or a basement to cool off in.

His house feels like an oven, the air warm enough to bake bread. The windows are opened wide, in hopes of catching a breeze. It's not the heat which only bothers Benjamen though, it's the boredom.

The television has finally decided to die, after ten years of working sporadically, and there are no books in the house which Benajamen has not read at least four times. He knows he should be studying for math, since there's a quiz eagerly waiting for his return to summer school tomorrow, but he can't summon the will to open his textbook. There were places which he could have gone to, like the community pool, library or the movie theatre, but if he could sweat in rivulet just sitting inside his house, he did not want to know what would happen if he went outside.

He lay on the wooden floor of his kitchen, finding it to be the least heated area of the house....

I've run out of ideas now. Probably will continue this on another hot summer's day.

This is insane.

I'm having a conversation with a friend through livejournal. What happened to the telephone? E-mail? Or plain, old-fashioned Msn. At least some mode of communication which does not require me to wait 24 hours for a reply.

At least we can find things to talk about. Since we have plenty of time to think of something. And the conversation won't fall into a rut.

I read somewhere that insanity is where one repeatedly does something over and over again, expecting for there to be different consequences every time. I think it was from a comic book. Yay, I shall now gain knowledge about the world and life through reading books filled with pictures of women who are drawn by men who are giving the impression that they've never seen a female in their life.

Someone should tell them that clothes were meant to keep the body warm, not to prevent the comic book from nearly being R-rated.

I need a new user picture. The repeated dance is driving me crazy. And the hip-thrusts are vaguely disturbing.

I don't watch Firefly. But after watching the trailer for the movie and seeing River whale on some guys(a scene which greatly took me by surprise), I am now forced to become a fan.

Therein ends my blurb. (Is therein even a word? Is that the correct way to use it?)

In the beginning there was nothing, then there was the Word and the Word was God.

Whoever said that was either Christian, Catholic or Jewish.

I was taken aback when I first saw this webpage. On xanga, when you insert your weblog entries, the box isn't that large. But here, the page seems so big and white and empty and while you're typing out words and sentences and phrases on it, it seems like you're creating life and this whole entire page is filled with meaning and emotions and that sort of things.

I'm not making much sense am I?

It may be because I have this migraine from lack of sleep and staring at the computer screen for too long. I may need to see a speech therapist. I can't talk the nice talk anymore and during conversations I spout out lines which sound like they came from the village idiot.

When my birthday came around this time of year, the fact hit me faster and harder than it had in previous years. I'm sixteen now, and I currently hate it. Despise the number. It's not evil, it goes beyond all that, it's a brick wall standing in my path, a lump on the smooth plain, it won't move, it won't go anywhere, it's just there. Fifteen is the top of the hill for high schoolers, now that I'm over it, I don't like the speed at which I'm going downhill.

Hey, people who formerly used Msn language in their weblog entries are now converting to English grammar. Things can change in this world after all.