February 5th, 2022 6:30am pst

If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning.

Demoness [sic]

 read ( words)

"This is a bad time and a stupid fucking page of content.

I am not working today. The decision was made last night to remain home for a while, avoiding both the people on the job sites as well as those at the bar afterward. The site in the city two days ago which forced me indoors when I suspected there would be a problem has reminded me of one tough situation here in town some years back. The client. I had not thought of that for a while. In addition, these days if there is even a hint of a cold or other symptoms, people have to remain away from each other. I began to feel something last night and it has carried to this morning. The right choice is to stay home and isolated. Remembering the client is not a good feeling right now, either. I'll have to work to get her out of my head. The job was very difficult from the moment we met. I was lucky to get out of there. I can hear her voice at this moment. Two days ago I believed something similar was right there in my peripheral so I fled. Another correct choice. A hint of long, black hair and I disappeared. If only the runner had not been present...

0631 on Thursday morning. The previous entry was published yesterday yet still feels unfinished. There is so much I cannot say, ever. That angry tirade and the story of all the bloody daydreaming was sketchy right out of the gate, too. I hesitated to go into detail because there may be a knock at the door. Or maybe not. Maybe never. I don't fucking know. The fact is I felt so horrible back then that the dreams became an outlet in order for me to function. I held tight to them and remained upright despite wishing otherwise. The woman who was there at home awaiting my arrival each day was as supportive as possible considering the circumstances. I told her almost nothing. The work on the cauliflower line was short-lived anyway. My next job in that area would be the last. A bit of a fucking problem caused by yours truly and I moved out of the house. A short time later I packed my stuff and drove back to California. Ah... That reminds me of the blonde on the interstate with the flirty eyes. Another time.

There is absolutely no way I can elaborate, although I am literally dying to lay it all out here. I have mentioned all manner of deviant sexual thoughts and dreams here, too. You'd think nothing is off limits. Well, violence must remain out of the narrative. Sex is one thing because the words are mere daydreams. Anything further and I'm not a person anymore. Discussing physical impulses is harmless.

Ah, the client. Exotic, like mixed ethnicity from the opposite side of the planet but with a British accent. She reminded me of the way Lorraine speaks on the television. Her voice is silky smooth. That job was a literal pain in the ass but went by just fine. We made it out of there after only one meeting with the client and no more contact afterward, thank the maker. She represented a defining moment in my ongoing search for meaning. I realized there were certain features combining to cause me to notice much more quickly than the average woman. Now I am a mess. Every day... Shit in my head without resolution. Pain here and there, both emotional and physical. Dreams making reality appear that much worse. The client did not do all this. A combination of circumstances. I've been told repeatedly to embrace and rise. Focus. Push. Forget it. I am going in the opposite direction. The appearances have been near and far, long and short, yet all have one thing in common which I can't spell out here. Just consider the possibilities.

Almost time to get the morning crap out of the way so I can enjoy the solace. Nothing heavy today, though. Just the usual simple stuff and then more writing. I am going to make a concerted effort to avoid repeating stuff again. This has to go somewhere, even if only circles. It must move along a path. I can't sit and gush the same shit over and over or nothing will be served. I've already been doing it for quite some time for lack of anything else. The fucking fiction ceased because my muse flew away, and now I'm left with what's inside, for better or worse. I expect nothing good. No answers. No help. No comfort. I expect heartache, pain, and a heaping helping of cunty. Keep on bitching, baby. Just keep on bitching.

Third-season Jamie and her pissy expressions. So funny. She was already beautiful during the dinner scene with James two seasons earlier. The die was cast despite her eating disorder. Everything eventually smoothed out and she grew older like the rest of us. But the arguing and crappy expressions just kill me.

0737 and I am looking forward to the day at home. I've not had an entire weekday like this since Tuesday of last week. Lots of work means cash, though, and that was my motivation. Everything is thinning now, too. There will not be much going on after today.

All quiet now. Or... 'All stop good quiet', as the submarine commander might say.

I am going to fully embrace the idea of the solace and feeling of being hidden away. I may be under the weather, but I can still care for a few things while home today. Ooh-fa this scene reinforces three disparate societal conjectures at the same time. I could slice the writers' heads off for such a public service announcement. God damn fuck me, anyway. I am no one. No voice. No nothing. Just a keyboard. Anyway, the day feels secure. I have some chores and lots of time to reflect upon the girl in the running shoes as opposed to me watching her while having lunch and then a cigarette. What a maroon. The shape she was displaying is the result of tons of very hard work and discipline. Much respect. My brain went into the sex again, yet the bottom line is she will never be in my eyes again. A good thing. There is much to consider today.

That other path. The one taken by another but not me, and for several reasons (one I will not discuss). I saw it for years. Now I only think about the subject due to being severely detached from the old world. Completely, really. I've been on my own for so long that the other way of life is alien now. I think about it often, most of the time due to some external media or conversation with someone else. I also have to hear about it all the fucking time which brings heartache on top of the other heartache. I really don't need that shit but at least I understand the source and motivation. There was a drunken, teary-eyed conversation long ago in which I expressed the feeling of utter respect. It remains to this day, although I am also angry about it. 'I tell you, shopping for one is no picnic.' I disagree. Did it for quite some time and never had a problem, but I digress. The other lifestyle is impossible and the conversations in support of options have been squashed to the degree of people being frightened of bringing them up in the future. I've heard it for years. No more of that. But I cannot avoid such a pervasive aspect of society. It is everywhere. I never went that way. I did not even try to see their angle. Too pissed off all the time. The person typing these words is not the easiest with which to speak these days. You know it and I know it. Pain in the fucking ass, really. But there are reasons for my mood, damn it. Good ones. The other path is merely one in a sea of shit. Some directions in life were avoided out of fear. The subject of this paragraph was impossible.

0944 and I may just sit right here all fucking day. The background song during this scene and at the close of the episode is awful. It effectively reinforces more shit in my head than I can quantify right now. Too much, in fact. There is also a parallel with the vampires. The whole thing is just another knife, but not one residing in my own hands. I fucking hate that song. Great voice, though. No getting around that one. Talent plus, content minus. Get it?


Why is the title 'demoness', you ask? Read on. My head is still filled with blood.

There are many reasons for the title and I have to be careful with wording. Part of the trouble during mornings is related to one particular person whom I now see as a demoness... Evil incarnate. More like a succubus, really, due to being so fucking alluring and sexy on the outside. Demoness will suffice. The fact is she drew me into her lair more than a decade ago and sunk the claws by way of being exactly what I had been dreaming, as if her brain signaled mine somehow and drained the information like blood from an incision. I went along, led by the nose. The heroin, too. That one is a tough subject, though, because I had only seen something so wondrous on a single occasion in the past. I was enthralled beyond belief. What I did not know at the time is that I had been a product pulled from the shelf of life to be chewed up and discarded. She used her vast devices and pulled me in such a way that there could be no escape. She read me like a large-print book and went to work with those very same devices. Right out of the fucking gate, in fact, one evening. She knew I would not resist the charm. She fucking knew. All sweetness and light. Flaming evil hidden away. I can still clearly see those eyes and feel the fingers. I am not proud of this. Such was the damage from decades before I slid into her waiting arms. Cause and effect.

I hate her now. I hate what I became in part due to her behavior and bald-faced lies. Everything is still right behind my eyes, too. All of it. I fucking hate her. I wouldn't piss on that woman if she were on fire. Now you know from where a fraction of the anger stems. Everything I felt when I saw that girl in the running shoes has developed in part because of the demoness, believe it or not. All the others, too.

Ashley was the antithesis. I still love her.

The good was unbelievably good. The bad was horrible. Her eyes... Evil through and through, yet I did not see it because I had been blinded by her mind and beauty. Sound familiar? Yes, I was weak and drawn like a human gun from a silky, sexy holster. And then I was shot by that very same fucking gun. She had more power over me than I care to admit. All of it. I am ashamed. She exploited all of the shit in my head and pushed buttons no one else ever saw. I was weak enough to allow anything. At least she is gone for good. I shall not look upon her like again, partly good and partly bad. The fact is I could not describe her beauty with a million words.

1020 and I am about to pour a glass of whiskey because there is little reason to refrain.

Jesus fucking God in heaven, Jamie's hair at the beginning of this episode is more beautiful than a lifetime of sunsets over a calm sea. I can't fucking believe the way she looks during the scene. Only third season, yet she has already surpassed a world of other faces. Fucking hell, anyway. Maybe it's the lighting, too. I don't know, but the result is me unable to add two and two. Whatever. Basket case. One other tidbit? James standing there in a suit just after the beauty of the universe is unreal. I love him, as well. First is Jamie's hair forcing my heart to explode, then James in the suit looking like ten million bucks, and lastly is Jackie the fucking brainless idiot trying to score with Jamie as she's passed out. Fucking half-minded moron. Eh... Such is the 'male thinking process'. Sad.

Here comes Annabella. Ooh-fa, what a fucked-up woman.

I can already tell this day will entail the minimum housework. The morning was bad like always, leaving me to fail miserably and then fall the hell down. Just another day. Had I gone to work? None of that shit would have been possible. The whole subject makes me angry. I feel as if I am in a prison fashioned from past troubles. No key. No nothing. Just stuck here for God-knows how long. I hate this almost as much as I hate society. Blind and sans direction. Blinded by demons.

1247. Some work finished. Some. I have very little motivation today. Very depressed.

There is John, just in time to help me realize that I am never going to be what other people see on the outside, mostly the females. I know why and there is nothing I can do to stop the process or alter the path. This is it. A disappointing morning led to a blah afternoon. Blah. Fishcakes. Empty dress and empty hopes. Mud and blood. My hands in the works and then moving out of my mind. There have been too many and the tension is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Tense and disappointed. Tense and angry. Dangerous. Uncaring. Empty dress. No more blue, only inside. Outside is normal.

Aaron: "No champagne. The good lord doesn't want us to drink alcohol."
Tony: "Didn't Jesus drink wine?"
Janice: "He was Jesus, Ton'. We can't make comparisons."

Wickedest beauty.

Black and blue? No... Blue and blood. Everywhere. 'Image of wretchedness'.


1438 and sideways. Completely sideways. I fell asleep with this machine on my lap and then decided that the radii image cap is to be lifted. One thousand will turn to two thousand over the next few years, or whenever I am fed up. Sideways. The blue dress is once again hanging in the breeze, all rust apparent. Plastic. Ahh... The best kind. Plastic lasts forever. Other things, too, but they have to remain out of the content here. Mostly problems. Blue dress covered in blood. The blood of...

Several people would have been spared the difficulty of dealing with me had I taken the other path. No, not that one. The one from ninety-four. I would have been most decidedly unavailable for a very long time.

The radii images above one thousand begin on this entry. Through four. The original images have been deleted. There was reason to move away from such a theme, too. For a while, anyway. Now? I don't give a fuck what shows up here. I can type until blue in the fingers and nothing will change. Images of whatever the fuck, and nothing will change. Speaking to another person? Nothing will change, there will only be one less person in the world in the dark. Pencil and paper? Nah. What about scribbling on the dress with a felt pen? Nothing will change. This is it. Nothing. No good... Not anymore. This entry is like roughly one hundred fifty others. Going nowhere. What about the demoness? Eh, fuck her anyway. Gone.


1713 and everything I intended to do today is finished. Almost cocktail hour, too. The remainder of the evening will be spent in partial consideration of where I am in life as opposed to where I may have been had one or two different switches not been thrown by me. This track has circles, yet the mainline never returns to any switch. If you don't understand the analogy, upgrade something in your head. Each switch was due to a demoness. Oh, and my desperate need to run.

This is fucking stupid. Here we are at 0633 on Friday, everything is wide open for us today, and yet the feelings will not leave. Yes, the feeling that there is too much here already and the other feeling which came around during the Midwest period. The blood is still swirling and making us think of where we would have been. Something has to change with regard to these entries because they are going nowhere. The lack of cohesion and direction is making us angry, eventually leading to enough frustration to turn back the clock and think of those moments on the cauliflower line. This is bad. We can't keep heading in the same direction every time the keyboard is available. We are literally losing grip now.

Not a good time. There are several issues going on right now -- not to mention that typical morning bullshit of being here instead of work and the resulting turmoil -- and they are beginning to run together. Bleed into one another. The demoness topic is probably going to go by the wayside. Or perhaps we can switch to another essay and then return here when the mood strikes.

That is precisely what we did. A short entry, published just now. The problem is this topic has wavered quite a bit and we do not know where to go from here. Some of the content above seems to resemble blame. Not good.

0828 and the alone time has begun. We need drive today, direction. Things have to change or we are going to end up even more pissed off than yesterday. The problems have no solutions, meaning we must force ourselves into other, more productive ways in order to grip the keel. Back to 'I'. Why not? Does this matter? You don't know.

The ninety-four period was rather tough at times due to the weather and my unfamiliarity with personalities around me while working. The market was better than the factory, though, mostly due to younger people and a more relaxed environment. The market was also nearly a year after the cauliflower line. Ninety-five. The only problem with the market was a girl... Oh, shit! There was a spark at that place. A shine, a propagating moment which may have helped to shape this current fucked-up state of mind. Wow. She just popped into my head right now... Little Kim. The other Kim preferred the nickname 'Kimmer' in order to tell them apart. Kimmer was much taller than the little one and with more hair than I had thought possible on a single head. Both of them were nice, pleasant toward others and very sweet to me. Kim was tiny and adorable. When she heard I was considering moving back to California she expressed interest in riding along and starting a new life here. Immediately I agreed to drive her across the country and went so far as to ensure she would have a place to stay upon arriving and for the next few months. We talked daily during break times in the back area of the market.

I don't know if I brought this up before, but one of those breaks during late summer found Kim sitting on a milk crate as we talked. She sat in a t-shirt and short shorts. And I mean fucking short because she was very small head to toe. My eyes wandered briefly toward her upper thighs and I caught sight of the fucking LINES which have ruled me for seven years. Yep, those lines leading up and into a very intimate space. Prior to that fateful afternoon, I had already been very attracted to her. Super cute all the time, that girl. She worried about the drive and us being in very close proximity for days (including motel stays on at least three or more nights as we traveled). She told me there was a strong possibility of us being physical due to the closeness and she knew of the problems such behavior can cause. I could not disagree. Cut to two months later and I drove across seven states and arrived in the eighth completely alone. She canceled out of concern. I will never know what may have happened and I never saw or spoke to Kim again. Sometimes the market comes to mind and I see her smiling face, and then I miss those days. Other times I wish she had come along.

The point is I can still see the lines. I see her khaki shorts and white t-shirt. I see her ponytail up high on the back of her head. I hear her voice. Aside from a few years prior when my partner donned a gorgeous bodystocking for my viewing pleasure, I do not recall the lines being so striking as they were on Kim's slender thighs sitting behind the market. That may have been suppressed until a reminder many years later. Also? Kim and her beautiful little body have NOT ONE FUCKING THING TO DO WITH THIS MESS OF AN ENTRY. I simply recalled her sitting there smiling. She was always smiling, just at the end of the Midwest period and mere weeks before I left and shattered the afterglow. I would still jump that gorgeous body given the chance. God damn was she ever cute. Whatever. I did what I did for a reason. Everything disappears.

The market was mid-ninety-five. The cauliflower line was late ninety four. I know the months due to what had just premiered in the theatre. One year before lusting over little Kim, I had been dreaming in the diametric opposite direction. Very bad. Blood everywhere. That period appeared and disappeared quickly, however. I had to focus upon driving across the country for the second time in two years. I streamlined my shit, had a custom tarp manufactured, ensured the truck was roadworthy, and eventually took off. No Kim. Just highway and my radios. I don't even know why I went into this crap. Everything is trivial now. Nothing appears new or exciting any longer.

Here comes the episode with the French girl again. I believe I have already gone on at length about her shoulders and whatnot. My feelings toward beauty don't fucking matter anyway.

Demoness. Maybe the title is inappropriate. Oh sure, one was a demoness but I learned such a fact far too late. By that point my whole life had been unraveled anyway, so the label is now meaningless. Whatever she was, I'm the fucking fool who followed. The other two? Nah... Just regular people. I'm having a difficult time trying to maintain a straight line on the site these days, hence the interruption and short entry on the index. This shit seems to go follow similar patterns lately... Topic, gushing about some woman I saw in person or on the television, back to the topic (sort of), and then some negative closing comments regarding my perpetual bad fucking mood. I fail to see the point. Maybe I'm the demon and have been trying to point the attention elsewhere. What do you think? Am I evil?

The French girl may as well take a flying leap for all I care. This is all very old now, anyway.


Brian's wife looks like a mouse sometimes. I don't know why.

1009 now. I'll do some stuff soon. I've been looking at the Pinterest feed daily and finding things I should not be seeing, like wristwatches. There is a photo someone shot of a Seiko watch on a green nylon strap which was embroidered with the company's logo. I've seen it on and off for a couple of years and went on multiple, extensive searches to find one. Well, I sold my last Seiko some time ago but figured if I could find the cool strap it could be saved if I acquire another. Nope. According to the Internet it does not exist. Whatever. The point is I ran across some strap discussions when someone mentioned a G-Shock resin strap from a new model which is much softer and more comfortable than its predecessor. Hmm... I had to know more. The short version is one moment I did not know the watch model existed, and the next I could not live without it. Heh. That's how this shit happens and how I ended up with the largest and most elaborate model ever produced. Too funny. We were on vacation in Palm Desert years ago when I ran across a photo. Two months later I was wearing the thing. Now I've seen a different, wondrous timepiece and will be wearing it within a week or so. And before you think I'm losing my way, go ahead and berate me for going around the world with disparate topics. I don't care. Right now my brain could not process one plus one if my life depended upon it. All fucked up.

Ugh. 1236 in the afternoon and a disgusting comare on the screen. Dis-gus-ting. Ooh-fa, she is better left unsaid. 1236 was a point of contention years ago... Part of a title. That number represented one of the best periods of my life over there across the bay. Very comfortable, stable, and still with the feeling that the future was open. I really loved that place. Unfortunately, only a few years passed before I wreaked holy fucking havoc on the little world which stood for a very long time. I am not as much as an idiot now. At least, I hope not. Some time ago I received commentary regarding the essay mentioned above. The conclusion was that I had been very unhappy, however the truth is quite the opposite. My hatred was toward society and nothing else. Just a thought.

A controller similar to the old Crestron tabletop panel was featured a few minutes back. One of their magazine advertisements from the nineties was the inspiration for those huge homes I used to design. The magazine was like the bible, just as the other one in eighty-nine which I perused on the east side of San Jose when the glow was just beginning. All that stuff causes heartache now, and maybe I deserve to be at least partly miserable due to the past. I don't know how all that shit works, though. Seeing the controller on the television brought me back close to three decades. Not as dramatic as the madeleines, but quite a bit of imagery popped into my brain very quickly. When something serves as a reminder of past periods, I see as many mistakes as I do happier times. I also see a clearer image of who I am right now.

This entry is beginning to inform me that writing does not help, nor is it a good idea these days.

Thinking about the short-shit entry I just slapped onto the index, I am realizing my unfair nature and double standard are actually more acute now than a year ago. Very bad. I am almost completely unfair, in fact, yet there is not one fucking Goddamned thing another human being can do about it. The insane thoughts stemming from such a fact are all related to a machine, like the now-infamous Jaime. Not for control, desire, peace of mind or anything of the like, but so the 'woman' cannot be subjected to my nature. Think about that for a minute before proceeding. I have been a rampant, uncontrollable pain in the ass to enough people to now know that regardless of power or prowess, I am the fucking problem. Read this paragraph again. It may be the most important group of words I've ever written.

In the past I have typed 'I know what I am', yet I believe that statement to be in error. I did not know.

Shall I head back to the smelly tank yard and cauliflower room? The four images here do not represent that dangerous mindset. They represent my brain. Perhaps I will return to the bloody indoor landscape at another time.

The radii images were originally capped at one thousand, and the last example was a stirring, striking image of a gorgeous face nearly matching Andrea, and that is why I employed it. Now the site is at one thousand five. Where from here? Is anyone paying attention to the fucking details? In the long run, you're better off reading something else. I've ruined this shit. Too much here... Too much going on inside, as well. I don't know how to pick a direction or make any decision. Lost. I'm quite certain of one fact, though, and that is the idea that the radii images have severely skewed my sense of physical attractiveness. Like everything else in my head, even the beauty is now questioned. Splendid. All I need now is to lose the ability to type and everything is fucking gone for good. The only thing in the world with which I communicate anymore is the fucking keyboard. Everyone else remains in the dark, and for good reason. Nothing in my head is shareable. Very bad. Murderous rage.

I fucking hate everything right now.

The work I performed last week and early this week may facilitate a smile, believe it or not. The watch. Heh. Nothing is funny... Not even the shit on the television.

1328 and at some point I need to finish the kitchen. One of my cats is flipping out right now. The dry cleaning also awaits my attention. An idea popped into my head earlier as I gazed at one of the big cars we built last year, and that is to get things organized in the house and then spend some days with the vampires on the big television and disassemble each model one at a time. That would take some work, but my personality is precisely the type to methodically do it again and maintain organization. Everything back in the boxes just in case I decide to sit with a cocktail and build. Maybe that can be a Monday morning goal. Time will tell.

The French girl again. Fourth season. I believe she's in three or four episodes. That woman is fucking tall, too, which accentuates her walk away from the podium in the restaurant. There is a short conversation involving her that REALLY shows off a few features and drives me up the fucking wall. I can't help it anymore, so shut the fuck up. This is what time and circumstances have made me. I'll try to avoid writing detailed descriptions of my desire in the future. I really will. Maybe refraining from such gushing can help a little. I sit here quite often and go around the world expressing respect for the actors, but I would imagine some of it is a bit hard to swallow due to my weak sexual nature these days. I apologize.

Father 'sleepover' is trying to help another. Hmm... Pastor heal thyself.

Oh boy, James in this scene is unreal. A defining situation and moment in my life seeing it play out for the first time. There is a hole in my life due to the past, and the exchange on the screen speaks directly to the opposite way of the world. When I see it? I love him and what he has accomplished for the medium of fictional television. I really do. I honestly love him. And if you want to sit there and make something dirty out of my wording, do me a favor and show up on my doorstep expressing the same idea. I will turn your fucking worthless head into a canoe. Believe it. Don't fuck with me. Not now. I have damned little left, motherfuckers. Try me.

Perhaps enough threats will convince people of my seriousness when it comes to filmed entertainment.


291 published entries. Will 300 be the end? YOU MAKE THE CALL.

Ugh. Another stab through dialog. I cannot blame the media or the medium, however. I honestly cannot. This is the way of the world.

Knives again. Knives out. I must protect myself at all costs. All the fucking knives.

Holy Jesus God in a pair of jeans, when Jamie plops on the sofa in her apartment I have problems concentrating. Unreal, that woman. Fourth season, too. Damn it. I'm going to run a search to learn just how many occurrences of her name there have been on this site. Stand by... 326, including 5 in my show journal. That means 321 mentions of her lovely name across 79 fucking entries. Three years? Less? I am COMPLETELY INSANE. Call me what you will. I don't care. Something happened and I saw her differently than in the past. I don't know when, nor do I know why, but there was definitely a turning point in the past. Now look at me. Fucked. She's about to say 'hi' in that stirring way that only she can. My heart...

1703 on the same Friday. The fourth of February. This essay has grown quickly. I finished all my stuff today and took care of the kitchen after lunch. The light is waning, meaning the dark and peaceful evening is on its way to my little space here in the living room. And there is Aleksa again. Hmm. Anyway, the work of the day is behind so I can relax a while. I also gathered tax documents -- some of which required printing and my typical war with the machine in question -- so she can have the office run numbers. Lots of business out of the way. The evening will be welcomed, right down to the fourth show in the background. I'm in the seventh season, so by two days from now I'll switch back to the third series and finish that one. Very exciting, eh? This is all I have anymore. Aside from the derailed title, I've pushed forth with clues as to some of the shit in my head. I suspect that after all this time there will be more whether I like it or not. The site must advance or there is little point in it existing anymore. Like today, I will be here on and off throughout the weekday routines as opposed to only the morning. February of twenty-two. Unbelievable. My recollection above regarding the magazines has jammed one memory into my head from the very beginning of the glow. In and around the work today I've considered how to broach the topic. Good and bad, like every other memory. The best course may be to construct an entire essay from that moment in time. Sometimes I remember too much for my own good.

I may be preparing dinner my way this evening. Pasta sauce. I do enjoy the work in there, especially with the television displaying my friends and their stories. There was a point last year when I honestly could not fry bacon without the fifth show in the background. Something about it related to an earlier time when I felt really joyful and positive. Maybe that can rub off again. I don't know. The fact is the pasta sauce is built and then left to simmer for quite a while before dinner, thus enabling me to curl up and remain comfortable for a time. Good God in heaven, she is so beautiful that I forgot what I was thinking. Fucking hell, anyway. That much loveliness should not be restricted to one woman, although I am overjoyed that I can see her in all the glory of those scenes. Be still my heart... I love her so much now. What a fucking whack job I've become. A fictional character for crying out loud. What a maroon. What was I saying? Dinner? Ah... The kitchen. Well, I've mentioned many times that it has become my favorite room in the house during the day and evening. I'll be in there within the hour to chop some stuff.

Jesus fuck... So damned beautiful. In love. All the way. I am doomed. And then another scene I've seen a thousand times but did not pay much attention. Her eyes again. The entire expression, too. Unbe-fucking-lievable. I don't know how I missed her before. The conversation is heartfelt and beautiful, but I guess I never really focused upon Jamie's face. What an idiot. I'll have to jot down the time in my other journal. Yes, part of that page is devoted to my favorite scenes and shots of the lovely Jamie. Whack job. Go ahead and agree as there can be no denying my unbalanced brain. I can't say enough sometimes. There will be no resolution nor getting out alive. Matter of time.

2106 and I am still bereft of ideas on how to proceed. There have been many words derailing my thought processes and situations which arose to keep me off the path I was following. Too bad for them, however. I can still force my words and smith the evening into whatever shape is necessary for keeping the faith. Too complex? Too bad. Research some metalworking terms or something which may help guide you to my way of expressing thought. I don't care. The fourth show is still up there. We are heading at breakneck speed toward one of the most striking beauties in the entire franchise. She will not make it this evening, unfortunately, unless I remain awake for several more hours. Nope. Too tired. The scotch has been flowing nicely.

I am tired of being questioned. No more, please. If the site is too difficult to understand, go elsewhere.

The cats are more comfortable than I am, ever. God bless their cute little ways of relaxing after dinner. I see complete solace. So adorable in contrast to myself. The past has shown me comfort of sorts, on and off, but very different from what I see on the backs of the sofa and loveseat right now. Mine was wrought with worry. Theirs is genuine because they hide nothing. They show exactly how they are feeling, be it tired, hungry, happy, or irritated. I cannot operate from instinct or I will be shunned and labeled badly. But I've done it regardless... I have drowned myself in the most reckless and damaging situations in search of said comfort. Believe me, that word is radically different in my mind than anything out there in the world. Just trust me. The type of comfort to which I refer is unlike what you may think. Not even close. When I look upon the cats as they are at this moment, I think of myself and the lengths to which I have gone to secure even a fraction of their bliss. I sit here at this moment completely lost and without hope as a result of that search. The worst fact is that much of what I have experienced had no basis in reality.

This is fucking stupid. I mentioned a while ago that I like to hear the keys click as I type and that is part of the reason for writing here in the first place. Well, when I replaced the keyboard, I ordered the wrong model and now it is quieter than the original. No backlight, either. And the indices are different enough to make me glance down and feel disappointment. This model does not have the military flair of the original. The quieter keys are not helping me. I'll have to go back to searching for the real replacement. This one works, though, so perhaps not all is lost. As I said... Fucking stupid. This whole entry is fucking ridiculous. I added a Latin disclaimer to the title because I lost my way.

Tomorrow is Saturday the fifth of February. The date means nothing to me. Just another day. No more football, no more gatherings over there, no more noisy crowds and potential excitement. From now until September the weekends are for naught. Every day may as well be named like the last. No meaning to me. I suppose the weekend means more quiet time before I am disturbed, so that can be a good thing. The bottom line is that I will continue to float along like the last month sans direction or motivation. I placed myself here, too. I'll have to embrace the peace and quiet as best I can. Down, down, down we go, yet again. Loss. Blackness. Circles. I already defined this state.

Don't tell me anything. Don't try. I will not react well. Leave everything as it is. Leave yourselves out of the equation. Don't begin to speak unless you already know of the outcome, for the outcome has been laid out here for a very long time. Don't push or I will push back, eventually resulting in something you will not want to see. Don't try to help unless you are certain I can change, and if you are, well... You're lying. You do not fucking know, so leave me out of whatever dreamy landscapes you've painted. Don't ask me fucking questions unless you are prepared to be shoved away with force. You are not going to get through. You are not going to change the way I feel. You are not going to be able to provide assistance. Just fucking stop. If you want to read this shit, read it. If you feel compelled to do more, go away. I am not a project. I am ruined.

Another waste of space.

Sic erat scriptum, indeed. What a fucking mess.