agaetis byrjun. again. or perhaps the end has no end.

another one. the last one fucked up. perhaps i was too eager a pioneer. perhaps friendster hates me. perhaps all that shit i've been hearing about determinism in class this semester is true after all. perhaps the defence minister of ethiopia wears pink underpants. why the fuck does all this matter. just like what shakespeare said about poor player on a stage and all that. we are candles with piss-poor excuses for flames looking ridiculous in the path of helen or whatever-name-they-always-give-hurricanes. or to that effect anyway.

dhany and harold look so proper. maybe it's against social norms to wear t-shirts at my age. perhaps i should start looking my age and tog myself out in shirts. perhaps i should act my age by engaging in wholesome, constructive activities. perhaps i should feel my age by losing my virginity.

maybe i should start writing again as well. just when i've stopped. but in another context of course. the week-long affair that just passed was just an exercise in desperation cumulating in nothing but despair and the increasing belief in my warped ideas being not-understandable for the fact that they're incoherent. and the idea creeping up on me that i just can't write well enough to convey my thoughts into words. perhaps i should go delve into familiar territory again. perhaps i should go insult some motherfucker in a thousand words. but inertia weighs heavily upon me.