Been cleaning up my room a bit. I found several loose pages and forgotten booklets with plenty of my writings on them. Here's one I found interesting (and strangely enough, pre-blog era):

"I don't understand why I'm writing, I just am. Maybe it's a desperate search for an answer, maybe I just need to relieve some stress. Either way, here I am. Writing.

I'm just sitting here, in the doctor's lounge at some hospital, watching my sis make rrotbeer float with the innards of an ice cream sandwich. She asked me if I wanted any. And to think that previously she downed a hamburger and hot dog just minutes ago. I guess that's how you get after missing lunch.

Then there's this carton of milk sitting right in front of me. I guess that just about this time I noticed how they always put the "importnat" stuff on the side of the cardboard box where one's suppose to open and drink. It just so happens that the milk carton has Millie the Cow and her puzzle on that side.

II don't know why but I'm contemplating making this into some type of mini comic strip. Go on, be like Neil Gaiman and innovate the mass of the illiterate readers with my H. G. Lovecrast-esque observations... It's amazing what three cups of coffee can do to one's writing mood."

And it's scary when one looks back and sees how they wrote like.

Okay, felt like sharing. I'm cleaning up the kitchen after making some curry chicken (made it a bit too sweet with the coconut) and in the middle of it mom comes down, takes one look around, and starts yelling at me to clean the place up. Not only that, I'm busy cleaning off the stove top and she's yelling at me to dry the dishes in the dish rack; clean across the room. Fuck you mom. Not my fault you have to always have the last word, but never do it again in front of a pensive son. Urgh.