Fuck it. I'm going to embed this shit:
I can't say any more. Not now, blog. I'm sorry. I know I pour my heart out to you on most occasions. But know that when I hold back, it's something that's especially serious and exciting that I will only spill to you in copious amounts after time has passed me by.
Yes, it's been nearly a month since I last wrote in you. I have good reason. I unfortunately can't elaborate at this point which breaks my heart. But one day I will continue the ridiculous story that is my personal life being thrown up on an internet forum; be it public or exclusive. We all reserve the right to write about our experiences, don't we.
For now, I'm off to bed to sleep. Perhance to dream.. No, I'm not Hamlet. My dad didn't die and my uncle didn't marry my mom. I'm not in love with a suicidal crazy named Ophelia. And the only Rosencrantz and Guildenstern I know are that of the Tom Stoppard variety and don't even think I'm getting that theatrically pretentious on this Monday night, the night of the Ivey awards. I'm better than that blog. Hell, I don't even dream. And if we're honest, everyone at the end of that play probably deserved to die anyway.
Hmmm. It's probably the wine talking at this point, but I could act in plays and be a great performer, but why pretend to feel that great emotion when you can feel it as yourself, firsthand for real and for the worth of actual consequence that it will have for you?
Well, I guess you don't get paid to feel your own emotion. Not in monetary amounts anyway. But it seems that there's this strange satisfaction about it that overshadows all of that anyway.
Yup. The wine hath taken over you, blog. It's time to turn in and be a resonsible adult for once in my life. Ha! Resonsible. It's my hybrid between responsibility and reasonable behavior. I can't lose with that, can I.