  Naked Women are like Free-Range Chicken, or You're Right and I'm Left This blog is being written to Guster Goldfly , and will be littered with lines from verses as I see fit. The past has passed, and we cannot take it back (Great Escape). It's seems that I have run my course in some people's lives lately. Whether they, the situation, or feelings have changed, I am no longer a worthy element in the composition. I would like to remedy the problem, but in either situation, I feel I don't have much of a say. Regardless of how much I'm doing already, I understand the need not to stretch myself too thin. I'm going to make it out of this semester by the skin of my teeth as is. I'm kicking the ball out of my court, have fun.
Honest is easy, fiction is where genius lies (Demons). So the last few nights I've had trouble sleeping, I keep hearing faint sounds of construction, but have no clue where they are coming from. Today, after getting out of the shower, I figured it out. My Junk has built an elevator. Apparently it's so damn cold, that My Junk is tired of making the trek back into my body for self-preservation. My Junk, having some ingenuity, built a small freight elevator to load everyone up on and move into my body. The only tough part is the sound the motor makes during class, when My Junk deems it warm enough to return to ground zero.
And she looked, like she was not even there (X-ray Eyes). Valerie came to visit me in the lab Monday. She had scratched her Maroon 5 (new website, tight Flash design, www.maroon5.com) CD and I gladly made her a new one. We chatted for a bit and I was glad to here she was doing well, and was recuperating from her nightmarish tonsil removal. Few people I've met are better than her at dealing with a lot of undeserved bullshit (including my own) in their lives and keep on rolling down that highway.
I've made my bed, and I'm lying in it, but I don't think I could apologize enough. I am scared of the things upcoming. And I want for the things I don't have. Cannot stand to be one of many, I'm not what they are (Rocketship). I live with a sense of urgency. I feel like everyday I get up is one more day than I should have. Where do I get this from? Maybe it's my insane fear of mortality that manifests itself in a mild depression every season. Regardless of short stories, I do not see or plan on an early demise. I just feel like I'm living on borrowed time. Maybe this explains the babbling posts, my need to medicate myself with vast amounts of work, to be everybody's friend, and constant validation that I do something right. I have a need to do everything, and well, I'm going to do it. Maybe it's the, "I'm 22 and need to get my shit together," and I just have a manic case.
I've always felt like one with a loose wire in my head, and nobody's ever disputed it. Apparently people are reading this babble, and they want to comment on it. If you are so moved by my whining, you can Instant Message me at the mighty m5 , or you could e-mail me at mswooding@hotmail.com. Was Colonel Sanders ever really a Colonel? Easy. (A.P.T. 5:38 p.m.) 
