1) You should always strive reach your goals unless striving makes you look like an idiot.
2) Always dwell on yesterday and you will never have to deal with any of today's problems until tomorrow. And by then you can't really do anything about them except dwell on them, so you aren't responsible.
3) He who has no aspirations knows only the numbness of listless existence, and therefore cannot feel failure's sting.
4) Even if there is "someone" out there who loves you and cares for you, there are probably billions more people who don't even know you exist, and couldn't care less about your happiness one way or the other.
5) Maybe vampires don't exist, but if you live with someone who seems to have his/her eye on your blood, there's no harm in driving a stake just a little ways into thier chest while they're sleeping to see how they react. If they begin to dissolve, or curse at you in a forgotten tongue, you've destroyed yourself an undead predator.
I applaud you for having enough faith in me to check this weblog, despite how long at has been since my last post.
And now, some poems for your pains:
MISSIVE TO THE BEARDED MOUSE IN MY MIND
Why do you comb your beard like an old goat?
Why are your shoes as green as the Emerald City?
If I feign indifference, will you laugh and leave me to other musings?
Will you let me sleep?
Why is your beardcomb so yellow, so sharp?
Why are you playing the piano like an octopus with no rythm?
Why does your fanny pack mock me like a beaded curtain?
Why are you bellydancing with sun glasses on as your comb swoops gracefully through your beard?
Stop it!
Stop it I say, or teach me the secrets of your soul.
THE PERFECT STORY
Magical, comforting.
A story to send me dreaming, soaring, exploring
Hoping.
Always beginning with,
"Once upon a time
In a land far away"
Always ending with,
"And that's how you disembowel a walrus"
THE ORANGE IN THE CHERRY TREE
Why am I so large?
All of my friends are small, bite sized little morsels.
They mock me,
They look so tasty.
I hope they don't hear my stomach grumbling like a tornado.
That little man over there, he's sleeping.
I could digest him quite subtly.
I wouldn't even need to puncture his pretty red skin.
I could open up like a Venus Fly Trap
Sing to him
Make him sleepdance to my side.
I don't eat my friends.
Why am I on this cherry tree?