A Hiccough

I wanted to fix up my blogspace a bit. I wanted to put down some links on the right of sites I want to be associated with (my brother's blog for one) but I don't know how to do it, yet. So I'm putting the short list here first:

http://the-elusive-bliss.blogspot.com/ - my brother's blog, one of the few people in the world who makes me feel mediocre. With an ego as big as mine, that's not a small accomplishment. Now this guy is a writer; compared to him, I'm just a mere dabbler in the art of putting words down to be read. What takes me hours to put together he conceptualizes, drafts, writes, edits, analyzes, rewrites, re-edits and finalizes in minutes. I can actually see the fucker squirm as he's reading this, pleased and embarrassed at the same time. I love screwing around with his head. I'm his older brother, I'm allowed.

http://perevision.deviantart.com/ - my friend's blog/online art gallery. She's very good, if my head was screwed on right I should've ask her to do my portrait before she left for London. We have a weird relationship (for one thing, no one can figure out how not only do we stand each other's company for any length of time, but we actually look for each other to hang out) - we hate to be interrupted when we talk and we do it all the time to each other.

That's it for now. I'll write something more meaningful later. It seems I only get inspired after midnight ... wow that's, like, so poetic and stuff.

I Prostitute Myself

I did it. I went and applied for and put up Google ads on my blog. I didn't think twice about it, I didn't dither or weigh how I can give myself credibility by turning my blog, what is in essence my thoughts, into a billboard. This is me. I'm materialistic and mercenary. If I can make a quick buck, I will.

I was once told that I'm wasted in the vanilla world, that my true calling is that of a madam in a bordello. I honestly believe I can be good at that. Not one of those sleazy places where truckers pull up for a quickie in the back. And not one of those chi-chi places either where the girls wear Victoria's SecretTM and the guys are in leather SpeedosTM. I'm thinking something discreet and quiet, with an almost zen-like setting. Hmm... note to self, draw up plans for a bordello.

So please do me a favor and use the Google search bar at the bottom and click on the ads on the right. Throw some cents in my direction.

Think of it as virtual streetwalking. Pick me up, I'm your mind-whore.

Pseudo-Insomnia

I was tempted to copy the stuff I wrote in my myspace.com journal here but I decided not to. Granted one reason was that I was too damn lazy to copy-paste-edit the bloody things but the other reason is that I feel this space should have its own pieces.

Okay, I'm a friggin' lazy cumquat, so sue me. If you want to read the other stuff, go to myspace.com and check out my profile.

I'm running on auxiliary power here...I hate it when I'm obviously tired, sleepy and I know I need to get to bed but something is simply keeping me from getting there.

I've always had this. I don't know if it's insomnia because I do feel sleepy and the minute my head touches my pillow, more often than not I'll fall asleep. Is it a refusal to let time march on by? A reaction to my need of stemming the tide, maybe that if I stay up, I can squeeze in something meaningful to a day wasted?

Ironically, it's when I'm working when I get this feeling the most.

Maturity DOES take a while, doesn't it?

Five years ago I left my job as Executive Secretary sorry, assistant, and at the time it was considered, if not a prudent decision, at least one that was to give me a measure of peace of mind.

My boss at the time wasn't the easiest person to work for -- an understatement for those who knew her then -- and the pay, while good, wasn't worth the aggravation I felt at the time.

God how I'm singing a different tune now. How a change of circumstance can lead to a change of perspective is always startling.

I've never really starved before. Oh yes, there were times that I couldn't eat for one reason or another but it's not starving when you know that the lack of food is a temporary condition. I mean this literally and figuratively. And I'm willing to put up with a whole lot of shit now for less because I've learned the value of making a living.

I've been spoiled by my upbringing and that's not entirely the fault of my parents. I believe one loses the ability to blame one's parents when one passes the age of eighteen. I'm a grown man and I value the fact that I make decisions about my life. I can't blame my parents for making me unfit to live in this cold, hard world. If, for argument's sake, they have done this, I've had ten years to remedy that and I didn't.

It's time to work; get my act together and contribute something. I realized five years ago that I might not become the man people read about in newspapers or in magazines; that I might be one of those who do the reading. I knew that then, in my head; but now I know it in my gut. Not to say I've given up hoping I'll ever be read about -- who doesn't have that dream? -- but I now know there's a whole lot ahead of me first.

It took me twenty-eight years to grow up. Better late than never.