If a cow ever got the chance...

I should really get a paper journal. This one has devolved into Veg's Diary of Social Interactions, Anxiety, and Boys I Like (yeah, as though it was ever something else). I am torn between recounting the ends of some stories and just attempting to make random pseudo-witty observations and completely throwing continuity out the window.

My brain and I are making friends, lately. Instead of having thoughts about how stupid and inept I am, it actually MAKES OBSERVATIONS about the situation! (and about the other people in the universe, how novel.) It congratulates me on my good reading voice and on being able to find the best falafel within a one-mile radius of any point in the city. It tells me jokes and we both laugh.

If you're into Cartesian dualism, I guess the above paragraph means I'm positing myself as separate from the mind: therefore, I must be The Body. Interesting. I have nothing printable to say about that.

I miss you. I don't e-mail because soon I will write you a big long letter, and the big long letter doesn't happen because my communication skills suck ass, frankly. I appear to believe it's enough just to think nice things and mentally wave them into the ether. In my defense, this strategy will work out great in three billion years when we've all evolved into galaxy-sized matrices of pure thought.

So loopy today. Perhaps I need some falafel.

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