time.

Time to compose the story of my life.

I'm going to list every physical attribute that is suffering at the moment, whether minuscule or impending:
My shoulder is bleeding.
My left elbow pit has had a sand papery itch, thus it's starting to scab.
A mild upset stomach, nothing catatonic.
My nose is enduring the pungent smell of this bowl of cat food sitting on my floor; reasons as to why this is here, I know not.
I think that's all.

In all honesty, I really haven't had the umph to write anything extravagent lately. I start quite a few of these things, but always end up clicking out of the window. I can't seem to muster up even time devotion or elevated vocabulary to form a sufficiently captivating entry.

If someone were to ask me what my main emotion consumption is at the time being, I would say weary steadiness. Ha, make sense? Is that even an emotion?

Remember kids, focusing on petty things can be rewarding; it allows yourself to limit how much dosage of the "big picture" you inject into your never wavering brain.

It's interesting to compare and contrast dreams with fellow human beings. Some don't remember their dreams, others have reoccuring dreams, some dreams relate to what the person thinks about before they fall asleep, others have dreams tripped out on LSD.
Those are my dreams. I swear, the things that happen in my figments manipulate them to be so unrealistically realistic. But I suppose, a vast majority of the world feels this way.

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear. What am I to do? It's so peculiar. When you're a fashioned risk taker, you often find yourself unable to make the jump to the thing that remains the safest. It's your biggest challenge. I can't ignore the signs within myself; I simply can't. You can't force yourself to feel a certain way. And that's what (scares isn't the right word, it's more like) baffles me. I'm disappointed in myself.

I like my cheddar sharp, thank-you-very-much. That's the story.