I’m slightly surprised that my livejournal still exists. Its last entry is from 2008 and it is incredibly generic. I posted a photo of myself by recommendation of Aimee Estes, a person best left to push up the poppies. Furthering a fruition of opium is something beneficial that her useless bag of flesh could do for humanity. Anyhow, I began going through an entry from Christmas Day 2005 entitled 100 Things About Me a month or so ago. This evening, I am on number 13, which reads
In general, I like cooking better than I like socializing.
To be slightly more abstract, I am quite fond of activities that require both creativity and concentration. For this reason, I also enjoy my job, which is insemenating circuit boards with my prehensile forebrain. Also for this reason, I enjoy composing music. The piece Albahaca is coming along nicely, thank you.
To be slighly more specific, I am more fond of activities that require both creativity and concentration more than I am of socializing when the latter is in an unwelcome context. My definition of unwelcome here is quite broad. Any social event that consists of forced niceties is right out. I am certainly fond of socializing with my mates and I take to it with gusto.
A limp wench might tell me that socializing can also be a creative sport. One can find the cracks in conversations, the narrows in which to slip. One can dart around others’ presentations like one eluding slow motion missiles. One can also be a cunt. One can be a creative cunt. Manipulation is not my aim. Perhaps I went through and discarded that phase during my teens and early twenties. I could be a cunt. I was a cunt. I was a creative cunt. I lost some friends.
Effortless socialization is fastastic and it abounds with my mates. Sadly, I my matie time is limited. It sparsely dapples yearly wax and wane. Of course, my mates are completely to blame and I am innocent. Fuck um. They, too, can benefit mankind by pushing up the poppies. I yearn to be adrift in a haze of opium spawned from the nitrogen-rich flesh of my compatriots.
As far as cooking goes, tomorrow I am on my own. No compatriot will be in my sight-line, nor will my flared nostrils taste the scent of their putrefacation, nor will my ears lap up their wails, nor will my skin sand away their scabs, nor will my sense of balance bother to hurl my unwilling living corpse at their unguarded thorax. I shall cook quinoa with garbanzos and dine alone.
I’ll toast my future poppies.
