The Obscure

The graduation party that my family wanted went very well, a million thanks to all who attended, and to those of you who didn't: You have made a powerful enemy.
The only minor ish I had with the whole shabang was introducing Katie to my family members. It wasn't that I didn't want to, it was just that it kept not happening. Mainly because I kept forgetting, I always assume that everyone within my sphere of influence knows all I know and sees all I see. Unfortunately, this does not seem to usually be the case.
Long story short, Katie had to shake less hands than she was quoted.
The Savings!
I don't know why my family holds parties anyway. Nobody actually "parties" in the usual sense, it's just an excuse for a large group of messy families to congregate in one messy family's normally messy house and all force themselves to maintain ONE clean household for just ONE day. It would be easier, methinks, if we partygoers all got printed-out lists of chores to complete during the actual event in question. I think it would save time. I also think the host (or hostess!) should do absolutely nothing to prepare their house for the celebrations.
Essentially I just think 30 or 40 people should come over our house on holidays to clean and cook for us. You are all cordially invited!

Ah, transcendence. A young man finds shelter from life's turbulence in the form of a dark, burning love-affair with words. Who shall stop me? I ask everyone.

I haven't written in a very long time, as I am sure at least one of you must have noticed. As to which one of you, I haven't a clue; but that is not really the question at this point.
My subconscious mind, fearing atrophy, started to plague me with ideas for different essays, verse, and prose, until I could take it no longer and decided to excercise my lax literary muscle in this public place before endeavoring to create something of any "worth". As usual I expect to give up before I begin to get comfortable writing something of "worth"; I will then go to bed, mournful and depressed, and lie awake for hours listening to the weird noises that are made when I lie with my ear against my pillow for too long--an act that I have been doing since long before I can remember, but still can not comprehend. Where do these noises come from? There is no movement or action inside the pillow, inside my room everything is still. Yet, night after night, my entire being becomes focused on these small, sporadic flashes of sound that in the stupor of my psychotic sleeplessness almost sound like the comforting words of a lover, sharing my pillowcase.
Of course in the light of day, there is nothing supernatural seeming about it. The blood-flow to my ear drum is restricted, so it is pulsating in an unusual fashion. That makes sense to me now, but if one tried to explain that to me during my nightly illogical mental binges it would be very similiar to, as my dear friend Ryan used to quote, talking to a very sleepy wall.

I was thinking earlier today about how the idea of "comedy" has metamorphosed over the years. I don't remember what conclusions I came to, though, so that is the end of that spiel.

That thing happened where I lose my energy for this mindless bullshit. Goodnight ladies and gents.