The sad, sorry, truth is: I have been catching up on my reading, my stitching, my gaming, my varied hobbies, but neglecting the rest of my life. Just plain simple indulgence in the sin of sloth and the artificial ivory-tower sanctuary away from ugly people and their even uglier antics.

Even writing this - explaining myself, expressing what I feel, figuring out the cohesive patterns of my thoughts - is drudgery. Writing is a skill, and right now, I am too lazy to maintain it. I'm just coasting along, hoping that things will take care of themselves in the long run. Knowing that things are deteriorating, but adopting a wouldn't-care-less attitude.

There is not even the smallest iota of enthusiasm I can summon for this place. Everything sounds stilted. The epiphany that my youth is passing me by; that I am still bounded by fetters of my own silly imagining tends to dim the lustre of having a catharsis created by words.

I am beginning to think this place is unhealthy for me. Constantly harping on the same few annoyances. Constantly reviewing the same old anguish. I should let them all go. Perhaps, all I need is to take rage management classes. No one should be this angry, bitter or repressed all the time.

Funny. This place was always filled with angst of the most immature kind. Now, having realised this simple fact, I am now filled with animosity and bitterness of the most destructive sort. That is still immature yadda yadda blah.

There I have said it. I'm sorry. Maybe things will get better now. Guilt is slow poison.