Merely Me

Ew. I am disgusted with myself. Honestly, I am making a scrunched up face at myself while writing this. I haven't written for a week and it's gross. I CAN'T STAND THIS ABSURDITY!!! I need to write more often and there's nothing else to it. Writing is my therapy for life and my remedy for all that bad shtuff that goes on around me. Yes, I say stuff with a "h". It adds something...well... better to it, don't you think? Don't be weirded out, but I am typing this in my bathroom. It's the only peaceful place I can be at this time of night. That doesn't make any sense because the whole house is pretty much filled with the silence of...well..nothing. The bathroom is just one of those places where I can sit on the floor, or the bathtub, or on top of the counter and just be alone. My room is not sufficient because that would suggest that I am in some way ready to go to bed and I am not.

I started reading Mere Christianity a while back and still have yet to finish it (refer to first post, it explains my literary weirdness) and so I picked it up yesterday and intend to finish it this weekend. Probably not going to happen since I never get anything useful done on the weekend beside the usual cleaning of the bathroom and vacuuming the house while avoiding the concept of homework. So, C.S. Lewis, I am attempting to conquer your books, starting with Mere Christianity. So far, it's pretty much made me fall in love with you, man. Not in a weird, creepy, "hey he's like dead and all" way, like in a "omg he's completely marvelous" kind of way. When I actually read some of his intellectual and insightful words I will get back to you guys. Feel free to pretend to be interested/excited. Whoever is reading this, you're stupendous. :)