welcome mat

so finally, having solved my writing crises - which involved three things consecutively: 1. absence of the necessary tools, 2. an utter lacking in terms of knowledge and understanding of those super-fantastic artificial brains-in-a-box, and, 3. the itch from the dime sized hole in my soul whose void most recently housed, and regretfully expunged, whatever i had left in the way of patience - i see myself fit to begin this journal. fit. so long as the definition you hold for that word includes at least three of the following: experiencing loss of motivation, disinterest, having a strong desire for sleep, a strong-er desire for yet another gloriously selfish and deliciously self-destructing hit, and lastly, the increasing need to urinate.

i'm a perfect 5. so then, yes, by my standards and yours (hopefully), i am in fact, fit. super-fit. famously so. and in being so super-famously-fit i will attempt to explain in excruciating detail (as is my style) just what it is that makes this boy tick. this boy. me. a server with a heart of gold and a fount of emotions that more often resembles a coop of chickens just off the chopping block. me. a lofty head, jam-packed full of dreams, hopes, and the artistic dust and clutter that's been gathering its troops for the past twenty-nine years - always threatening that fatal attack that will unleash the flood and take back those lost countries of song lyrics and painted realities, those cities of hand-made delicacies. me. a gay christian, with a pair of hundred-pound cement shoes.

you see, what i'm trying to do here... what i'm trying to prove, is this... that, on the eve of that ever-impending doom that assigns itself to the ripe old age of thirty, i have something to say. something that will mean something to you. something that will mean something to me. you see, what i am efforting to show is that, yes, i have accomplished things. yes, i have indeed learned... and re-learned. i have experienced. i have lived. i have survived. i have grown-up, matured, and marinated in my own juices enough to write it down. or what i'm really trying to do here is convince myself of these things. maybe i'm just laboring my way up the ladder, rung by splintery rung, heaving my load, trying to make it to that next step, that next purgatorial level of self-fulfillment. and maybe i have nothing to say at all. i guess you can be the judge of that.