february first. january always has been a quiet one, hasn't it? i wanted to write something the past few days but i figured i'd just let it ride out and start in february clean.

scratch that, i've wanted to write something all the time.. in the beginning of the month it was writing about last year, in the middle of the month it was wanting to write about the upcoming year, the end of the month wanted to write about the premature arrival of february--for some, but not for myself.

i will not be participating in the antics of february this year, i will it so. i don't know when i decided that february was cthulhu's month, or why i associate things that could very well be unreal (but does it ever really matter?) with things that are intangible

blah blah blah

is there ever an answer to why i have not written? cause i have too much to say, because i haven't been spending too much time sitting in front of the computer these days, because i don't want to read what i have to say, because i don't want to say it, because because because, there isn't much

except connecting the dots, and i must always remind myself that i do this so someday when i look back and i go through it all again i can remember it and dredge it up in a wholly positive manner and remind myself of what it is like

to be human
and in love
with it all
and young
and maybe wanting to give up the mystery
and maybe running at it head first
but still i am tethered
happily, to that which i hold
dear
and i can't help wondering
but the more i wonder
the less i am willing
to let go

so you see what happens when i sit at the keys and give it ten minutes

so maybe that's what it comes down to; sometimes i forget i do this for me and i think that i don't want to put it out in its big cyclical fashion of yes and no and yes and no and i want and i give in and i give up and i choose this

so why put it out for the world to see? because it is different. it changes it. it is holy confession.

it is the nature of the paper i will someday write, if i ever get on with it.

pat cooley is dead. another sharp mind dulled with the prospect of getting drunk another weekend and smashing into a stationary tow truck. pat cooley has died. so it goes.

ps i can cook eggplant parmigiana. i win.