But it's cold.

So today.

Extremely extremely extremely unproductive. Which is my fault, and I completely understand this, but it's fine, because at least I'm aware.

This week doesn't feel real. Probably because it's not. But time really is flying by.

The Red Sox are hurting my heart.

The difference between lonely and alone used to be perfectly defined. Now, not so much.

I just don't know.

I'm an agressive typer. I should probably quiet down.

My archive of entries runs the gamut from detailed epics to fungus like this, where I really have nothing to say, so I write sentences that have nothing to do with each other. The detailed epics are fun. Or they were, at least.

"Maybe you're only interested for the sake of making small talk long enough to ask me back to your place to watch a movie. Or maybe because you've got some terrific, unknown CELINE DION record when all you really want to do is sleep with me, which you won't do very well. After which you'll procede to lie back down beside me and confess that you've got a girlfriend named Stephanie who's away at medical school in Belgium for a year and that you've been involved with her, off and on, in what you'll call a very 'intricate' relationship for the past SEVEN YEARS. None of which interests me, Mister."

...Damn yeah I still remember. I also remember completely skipping that entire section of Sure Thing. 

Why is it that I can remember monologues but not a variety of things associated with Biology of Cancer and Aids?

Wow, I'm awesome at making good use of my time.