my name is inigo montoya. you killed my father. prepare to die.
this has certainly been a long, eventful day.
entry number 28 in my guestbook made me smile.
editing my guestbook template filled me with despair. can you imagine that? despair over a guestbook?
this has certainly been a long day, and the past hour the longest hour of this long day.
listening to a familiar old praise song made me sad for how complicated the world is, life is, people are.
meeting people that i couldn't really give myself to made me sad, tired, angry.
the heat made me exhausted. i'm drained but can't go to sleep when i could still be doing something.
this has been a long, draining, exhausting day, and i have work in the morning, in about ten hours.
sometimes i despair over myself, i see myself turning into the slick preachers and businessmen of the day. i see myself turning into my father, who spoke in condescending, patronizing good cheer, or in furious anger, when he spoke at all; and i see myself turning into my mother, who had to invent for herself a more outgoing personality to compensate for my father's lack of assertion, and as a result always seemed, to me at least, to be acting out a role and delivering pre-written speeches even in the heat of conflict.
sometimes i am tired, but don't want to go to bed. the sock-feeted pajamas must wait until another day.
i couldn't wear pajamas with feet, anyway. such an admission of childhood requires too much courage because it is a vulnerable position. everybody wants to grow up. nobody wants to be mature.
sometimes i am tired, and want to go to bed.