Passion

My only passion is writing. But how can you become a writer when you don't even like your own stuff? Always wanting someone to ask "what are you writing". Constantly wanting to share my whiney thoughts. My wine. Always walking fast to look busy, walking with a purpose. They say its the spectator who see's most of the game-- well if thats so, then he needs to get down here and tell me how the fuck i'm supposed to play. We are all animals, all of us trying to prove that we are the better breed. We are all programmed to want sex. So we have it plentifully. Creatures of nature, we can't help but react to our natural instincts instantly... which are almost all the time, wrong. All people can ever talk about is life. Their life. When will we conquer the last 90% of our brains. How frusterating it must be for those of us who do use more of our brains. No wonder they say Einstein was such as asshole. Constantly surrounded by people 10% dumber than him. People who used the word "dumber". If only we could get control of our brain and figure out how to really use it, get a manual. Then maybe we could control our emotions and feelings and no longer be prisoners of our own anger and sadness! Oh glorious day.
Dated sometime in 2004