God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son."

The Devil, well he likes to gamble. What you might call his sin of choice.

Why all my poets made of sand? Why are all the prophets dust?

Caligula got a bad rap.

Today, a day much like anyother, happens to be the 23rd anniversary of my birth. Twenty-three years ago in a small hospital in a smallish suburb of Tokyo a much smaller version of myself was brought forth into the world screaming. I have continued to scream. Though the words have changed and there are less nurses around. Perhaps I should remedy that. Perhaps.

I have nothing truly to say, being mostly sober and bored, but I sit here contemplating life and drinking $3 California "champagne" - you can't go wrong with Andre, believe you me. I don't know where any of this is going, so I mostly going to just let things work themselves out. First I have to go turn off my dvd player. It is playing the top menu 30 second promo thing and it is repeating ad nauseum and becoming quite vexing. Better...

So here I am. Sitting alone in a house full of nothing, books. I drink nowhere near as heavily as a good prophet should and far too much for a normal person just looking to get by, just looking to stay alive until the end. So that might be the source of my problems. I cannot live to excess. Not well anyway. I can't commit to it. I live my excess in moderation. Too damn stoic if you ask me. Need more cynic, more Diogenese. And now I wonder how it is I feel comfortable waxing Greek philosophical on topics which I have only the most rudimentary of knowledge. That might be another of my problems. That I know a little about a lot of things but I don't know a lot about any specific thing. I have no real interest to which I have devoted myself and my study. And the vagaries of my knowledge base and backstory are starting to catch up with the fact that I still want to write without the burden of six months of research. I have never been a fan of research. If something is worth knowing, I have probably only stumbled upon it by chance. Though I must insist that Fate not be invited to my tea party. But that leaves us nowhere...

I feel like I was born in the wrong generation. Perhaps that is the view of all budding dissidents. A harkening for days long past, for the freedoms of our fathers. I cannot fully say. Maybe I just haven't found my scene yet. Or figured out who I am. Because I haven't really figured out which one of the voices in my head is mine, or if they all are, which one I should trust as most reliable. The relative isolation of my twenty-second year taught me little save that I am a serious of unfortunate contradictions. Ask me about it later, it's a long long story.

In case you were wondering, (and if you weren't then I guess we aren't as similar as I might have hoped) yes, I am drinking my "champagne" straight from its oh so inexpensive bottle. It brings a sense of absurd "manliness" to the whole circus. I will be drinking martinis later provided I have enough initiative to actually mix them. Elsewise I will be drinking gin. I needed a change from months of bourbon. I destest patterns and routines. It's how think, and thus I feel the continual need to flee from what I know and can understand. I wonder if that is as unusual as it sounds. Interstingly enough this is the first time I have diagnosed myself with this absurd malady, I wonder if it will catch on and find its way into something I write. I wonder if I will ever get anything I write finshed. It would seem the Muse has taken a vacation/doesn't really give a shit about me anymore. What can you do? The world is naught but shifting sand. Under the brilliant unchanging sun.

Doubt, because it has to end sometime.

I'll think of something. In time, I hope...