There Is So Much Breath In My Mouth, My Ears Are Breathing

It's hard for me to post these because I want them to be so good, as if this is real writing, as if any of it really counts for something and you will publish me on a whim. My narcissism is exploding. So is yours, I'm certain. Your events aren't your events but you make them so. Make everything personal, ours, outward extention of your internal struggle to be god. Hubris.

There is a path I have made like a hampster tunnel that goes from my room, down the stairs to the right through the living room, (the room that anyone at one particular time actually "lives" in) and cuts straight into the office where the computer is so I can pawn off a few hours on whatever social-networking site of the day it may be and hope to establish some sort of conversation that results in hanging out and cutting down trees or snow castles or damning creeks and streets but then that never happens because none of us are so inspired anymore and I have more fun thinking about it than doing it. Coming home is pathetic. This a product and a full-fledged deluge of my patheticism(?). This is clearly what I do when I'm home. I read some, watch TV plenty, internet plenty, check the mail almost daily even though I don't technically live here anymore and know that few people would be so inclined to mail me, sleep until there is no sun left in the day and I have to open the refrigerator on multiple occassions to simulate light and entertain the idea that I might eat something healthy and just settle on cheese and maybe a soda. I do other things that most would do in this situation that can't be said on the internet for the sake of future employment which has been way too much on my mind:

Root Beer Brewery
Architecht
Chef
Food Tester
Food Critic
Food Analyst
Movie Score Writer (really just making mixes and sountracks because I can't write music, intelligently or knowledgeably, at least).
Editor of a Magazine (of the literary persuasion)
Write Reviews
Teach (this should probably be higher on the list, my slacker values are evident)

Anyways, it occurrs to me that this is so self-indulgent and I really only feel 10% guilty about that because if I don't put this somewhere (granted a journal would be a more suitable idea because it is less prone to voyeurism and self-grandeur) then I will either a)explode in like The Challenger kind of way or b)become schizophrenic which, has been a legitimate fear of mine lately.

I should be looking at graduate school, I should be scaffolding my answer to what I will do with my English degree, I should find ways to make money, pyramid schemes (that just sounded appropriate. I have a very limited understanding of them, truly), I should snow-shoe a little more, write something of actual worth versus diatribe, and so on.

If you made it this far thanks for indulging me while I over-indulged you and I hope you don't have to eat for a few days and hope that you still want to be friends. I love you. Who the fuck is this "you" anyways. To be continued...