I'm bored. I just wrote the worst six pages in recent memory. I have to write 2500 words about some sort of consumer trend, and I chose metrosexuality. The writing was so bad, but the organization was horrific. I also refused to make any sort of consistent argument, so that's going to be a real problem. fuck.

I think I've bitten off a whole lot more than I can choose with my aspirations. I seem to think I'm a lot more special than I really am. What the fuck am I talking about? I know, but I don't want to say, because it's sad and all this blog-shit is sad, and you're a little bit sad for still reading this post that's bathing in self-loathing. Why do I have such a pre-occupation with prestige when I have no history of prestige? Why do I only make room for the most prestigous possibilities in my mind's eye? Why is my mind's eye so fucking busy? fuck.