That song is now stuck in my head. I hate everything. I’ve felt like writing a lot more lately, but I’m not sure where I want to spend my efforts. Serious blogging? Fiction? Fourteen erotic stories involving cows? (That last one is not an actual idea, don’t worry. Sheesh, freaks.) I’m always stuck on having “meaning” as if the only reason I write is some grand sense of having change on the world. But what’s wrong with writing for the sake of simply wanting to do so? Nothing at all, I would say.
But my brain would disagree.
Maybe I should start writing about all the weird cognitive things my brain does to fuck with me. Our brains are so damn weird.