I do

So I want to cut my hair. 

I've wanted to cut it for months now. 

But never did. 

And now it's long. 

It's been long.

But it's longer now.

And needs the scissors.

DOC ROE! 

"Sizzuhs!"

Oh yes. I haven't mentioned my train-of-thought-time-wasting-thingie that I often do for the heck of it and because I can write and listen at the same time (bow to my multi-talentedness). 

EXAMPLE:

Example.

SAT's.

Snacks!

Cheetos. 

Tiger.

They're Grrrrrreat!

Breakfast. 

Colonial New England.

Constance O'Connor.

Leaves.

Trees.

Clint Eastwood.

That "Do you feel lucky?" scene.

River.

Heh....River conversations.

Bridges. 

Bugs Bunny.

Fat Horses.

Plums.

Purple.

Nurple. 

:D

Fine Arts.

Spoons. 

-.-

Soup.

Peddler's Village.

Dolls.

CSI.

Oh yeah..the objective is to get back to the origianl word. 

Hodges.

Wendy.

Peter Pan.

Green.

Recycle.

Garbage.

Stuart Little.

Hugh Laurie.

Backyards.

And..I give up. This can keep going on forever.

Did I mention that I want to cut my hair already? Because I do. Preferably before Fine Arts. But if not, that's fine. That's fine. I'd like to cut it just-below-the-ear short. And hope and pray that it grows back, because I really like long hair. 

But that's neither here nor there.

It was here, but now it's gone. Because a promise is a promise, one hundred percent.

I think I need sleep. 

And I've rediscovered the smoothness of buttermilk. 

*wipes brow*

It is a GOOD THING that I re-checked that last sentence. Otherwise we would've had problems. 

*teary sigh*

The LOL Corner moves me to tears.

You know when you buy a book because of the author or the title or the summary and then you read it and weep. Or cringe, in my case. 

Yeah...

There was a book (I say "was" because I am finished with it) named Cherokee Rose and I picked it up because of the author and the cover and the summary and I read two pages into it and cringed. Haven't picked it up since. Maybe once, and only to blow a raspberry. 

Ezekiel makes a great conscience, by the way. 

And my obnoxiously long bangs are... annoying.

Why was that red, you ask? Simple, I say. Because the button was there. And my finger was ready to push something. 

You know, it's 21:38. And here I am, sitting in front of the screen and typing away random nonsense. 

Savoring the taste of buttermilk. 

Ignoring the fact that tomorrow, life has to continue.

I have many favourite times of the day. But maybe this is my most beloved. When the world blankets down for the night and when it is in its waking moments. The world, in general.

When I jump into the stream of life with my own little rock somewhere, I will wake up just before dawn and fall asleep just after they all bed down. 

I don't know what's stopping me from doing that now. 

Lies!

I'm just tired. Good intentions never accomplish much of anything, do they? Just too tired to actually lift myself up from the toasty blankets and into that cold, cruel world. 

I am an early riser. 

Or as Nix commented,

"You've always risen at a Christ-like hour."

And I have. But it's that rising part that gets me. 

Falling asleep, I have no issues with. 

Why am I rambling like this? 

Because I can.

Who asks and question and answers it in the next sentence?

I do. 

And then I don't. 

And I do again.

And I can do but I won't do.

Because it won't do.

It won't do at all.

Like anything makes sense at all.

Nothing does, really.

If you think about it.

Which I don't.

Not really. 

Yeah.

I think that sleep is in order. 

Hey! I just realized that my head talks when I type! How cool is that! 

Fish, I hear your voice in my head when I read your blogs. 

No pun intended. 

I wish I were British. And old. Like wine. But a little less...colourful. 

I know this doesn't make any sense. It's not meant to. The only thing that does make sense is that blank notebook page calling out to me. 

Which doesn't really make sense at all, when you think about it, because how can notebooks pages call? And if they did, would they have distinct voices? Would their call vary according to the amount of writing, or the style of the cover? 

This is hilarious. In a sad sort of way, because everyone wants to be original and unique and wonderful and everyone imitates something. 

And here I was just wishing that life imitated art. Which it does, sometimes. And we do, sometimes, too. But what is art but an imitation of something else? 

I think I would excel in a philosophy class. If only because my brain likes to stretch in weird angles. 

I'm going to sleep now. 

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.