Adventures in Purgatory

Alright, last night I promised you some rambling, so here we are yet again; me, caffinated and unwaveringly staring vacantly into my computer screen, typing away at this business o' mine, filling cyberspace with yet more of my intellectual bilge... and you, undoubtedly in front of your own monitor, reading on and gasping either with delight or revulsion, but that depends on your sense of humor (and partially on what you last ate). As a third alternative, you could be staring just as blankly and gauntly as myself, still trying to make sense of this, but I'm rambling. The point is that you are here to derive whatever satisfaction you possibly could out of reading this, and I'm here just because this is a thing I tend to be doing late at night.

I've been feeling much more productive lately, things have began to feel less stagnant. Things have began clearing up; I've been writing more of my poetry recently, which is the perfect antidote for my short period of poetic stasis.  I've been fidgeting with many more art projects, disecting many more household appliances, sketching, talking to myself, yelling into empty space, and of course plunging into epic combat against the forces of evil. It feels as if I were just floating in some empty, purgatorial (trust me, "purgatorial" is really an adjective.) void, useless and complacent... when out of nowhere a massive gorrilla in a party hat appears and proceeds to administer the heimlich maneuver upon my metaphysical self, and all of a sudden everything makes sense. I then kindly thank the gorrilla, and then pummel the assbag for destroying my kidney. I would say it's been a good day.

So, after this mental enima, what has dear old Alex learned? Well, first he needs to get a job, then make money, so he can not only move out, but also support himself and not have to move back in with his parents. Then, he's gonna get himself to a good art college, then finally start that screen printing business of his. He's also gonna get a cat named Mansfield. Alex is going to stop speaking in third person now. I was also thinking about writing some short stories, so mayhaps they'll appear here for your enjoyment. Hmm... shit, this is the point where my writing starts to devolve into some sort of senseless, twisted abomination of the English language; here's where my caffine buzz wears off, and the nerve endings in my brain begin to misfire and toast my thought process, making me rather sleepy. If only there were another way to communicate; as wonderful as words are, there are a lot of flaws with this method of communication. I wish we could just communicate with impulse and raw thought, communicate not using words, but using the ideas that drive them. No this is not hippie bullshit, in fact many people would find this frightening in practice instead of just theory. It wouldn't be some universal thought melding, I abhor the thought; no, this would be raw and sometimes ugly, but at the same time it would be the one of the most honest and beautiful things people have seen in a long time.

What the fuck am I even typing? I'm tired, and I've been listening to the same song on repeat for the past hour. I feel like I need to type something else, but I also feel like nothing else would fit in with this post, so Imma just end it here and type somethin' else.