Today is December 3rd, aka the day some of the coolest people were born.
(2:23 AM)

     Hey.

Xanga has fallen to the wayside. Like a book that fell behind a shelf and eventually right out of your memory, it left. I just happened to be rearranging and came a cross it.

     I found out later that the box I was talking about, the empty one, wasn't empty. Then I realized it was. Now I'm just not so sure, I mean it isn't empty. It's just is hard to define.

     You don't really need an update, I'm the same person I've been since August 23rd when I had to return the rental. Nothing has changed, except I now know what being in jail is like, my heart is really tired of not being used except for that unnamed box previously mentioned, I'm in Emporia, I lost a shit ton of weight.

Still no job, or car. I'm living in 3 different houses at any given time, my cell phone is shut off and I'm confused as to what the fuck some of my friends are doing with themselves. I mean really, at least one of them has become a complete and total zombie freak. . . I guess I don't really have a high horse to be on.
I'm trying to give up to soap box.
But you seem really . . . lost.
Is there even any of you left?

Well. . . I'll end on a happier note!!!
Happy Birthday Lucy E. Stark and Jessy L. Young.
And Ozzy.

You make the world shine!

Tension A.K.A. My Constant State of Being
(6:00 AM)

     I am a living office building. A storage yard, perhaps. Maybe even a bee hive. Well regardless, I have within me a large collection of cubical, storage units, and hectigonal honey combs, each filled to the brim with so much unresolved conflict that even thinking about one of them could unlatch pandora's box of infinite tension. Every time I sit down to write an entry I realize that I don't really want to purge my inner most thoughts in a sequitur manor.

     I'm starting to avoid conversations all together because I just don't want to open any of my compartments enough to accidently have the flood of tension blow back the door, leaving me afloat in a sea of raw and unprocessed emotion.

     Good news? One of my compartments, when opened, proved to be much less hectic than anticipated. It was empty, weightless, and hollow.
                  Thank god.

Righteous Indignation
(7:25 PM)

     Hmm.

     I feel like I fell out of sync with the rest of the world, slipped into a roll that apparently needed to be filled. I jump back into the real world every now and again, trips to the hookah bar, nights out on the town with some lovely ladies.

How can I feel so free and so constricted at the same time?

. . . This is?
(11:43 AM)

     I don't even know anymore. Anymore? I never knew.

This is nothing new to me, hell, far from it. This is actually pretty standard practice if you look at my track record. It never made me feel dirty before.

This doesn't make any sence.
(I'll add pictures and such later.)

Greater Heights
(2:48 AM)

     I'm just so disappointed, in oh so much. I'm reading this book called The Fuck-Up, which is a pretty good read by the way, and as I read it I think "what the hell is this guy doing?" Then I put the book down, come back to reality and realize that pretty much everyone that I know is this guy.

     We all have our own pattern of self-destruction, like dogs scratching themselves raw we all adhere to set flaws, stepping on the same nail time after time. Why do we repeat ourselves? What is the point of having a memory, having a past if we can't look back on the given data and realize "Well shit, bob, this just isn't going to work at all." We swerve left when we should go right, every time.

     We keep running into the same walls.