This is my old livejournal I found laying around my computer. I just thought, you know with my poetry and my seventh grade journal and everything, I could post is up here for posterity sake. I planned for this blog to be about my life and programming tutorials. I’m still working on the programming tutorials (as in, well, thinking about them). And all this old stuff, I guess is a good way to get to know me in a way. Mostly it helps me store stuff in a central location I want to look up later. So here goes. (Remember this is like 9-10 years ago):
My journal has become alien to me. That’s no good. It’s been hard for me to update on anything, from my thoughts on genetic engineering restrictions, to mind expansion, to my new love interest, to my faster internet connection, to Second Life, updates on my existence…
I’m sure of course that all you cyber people out there would just love to hear all the inane details of my god forsaken life, I suppose, somebody out there finds pleasure in these things. So what am I writing in here for? Am I writing in here for you? Am I writing in here for me? Am I writing in here just to write?
I wish I had some great thing that has transpired in my life that I could pop out and share with you all and say, “Look, this is where I’ve been the last month and a half!” But all I have is this stupid god-awfully long book project that I’ve been working on for this old guy I don’t really care for. Oh well, once I’m done I’ll get the rest of my $1300. My time is being cut down again at the insurance agency, I suppose that is a good thing.
I love Dragon Sex Jesus and I’ve never met the man in person. I’ve never heard his voice. I have one tiny picture of him, but I have fell in love with his personality. Is that so strange? Should I be worried that the one person who seems most like the biggest match in the world is somebody I only know through text? Is there such a difference between books and reality?
I wish I had more to hold on to in life, and if you looked at it from the outside you’d think I would, but I really don’t. My mother said I was beyond sad, like deep down inside I was beyond being said at the prospect of leaving everything behind. All this time, even these past three years I suppose that is true, even when I said it wasn’t. My story isn’t finished yet, but at any given moment it could be. I mean… what’s the point really?
At any given moment I could figure out that last final step, access those last bits of information that would enable me to change the face of my entire reality. Solve the puzzle to my invention and unleash it upon the world. Become richer than my wildest dreams. At any given moment I could also die.
How puzzling these things are to me. How frustrating that so few people are really willing to see them, I mean, REALLY see them. Since I was born I’ve just wanted to change the world, and I’ve discovered to do that I must change my own reality. Is that really to much to ask?
I don’t want to go through life, be idealistic in my twenties, go through an existential crisis in my fifties, lament my old age in my seventies, and then just croak, and forgotten. I’m having my existential crises now, and I’m only twenty-one. I know you’ll probably doubt me, and tell me, “You don’t know what a real existential crisis is at twenty-one.” Well, you’ve obviously never met me if you say that. I want to break the pattern. I want to break the boundaries of my own existence. I just…
Anyways, I better get back to work.