User: Ask me a question.

Cleverbot: What color are your eyes?

User: Hazel.

Cleverbot: My eyes are blue.

User: Are they always blue?

Cleverbot: Irrelevant question.

User: Hahah, how so?

Cleverbot: Because. iyesterday is in the past. so, if you were 18 yesterday, you must be 18 today.

User: Will your eyes be blue tomorrow?

Cleverbot: No.

Hello.

Is this thing on?

I may have a feasible idea for my eventual thesis paper. I don't know enough about the research process to know how to approach it, but I am excited. Robert told me not to share it with my professors lest they steal it. Wheeeeeeeee!

A beautiful border of Fs

Fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.

Why did you do that. And I mean you this time! Not me!

I guess me too.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.

/end"rant"

Didn't press the send button. If an explanation is not called for, do not give one.

"Children should be seen and not heard."

Puritanical! Children should only speak when spoken to.

It's not like I need a hobby. I have too many as it is. Hell, instead of returning those two books to the library I never finished, I renewed them and checked out two more today. Came home and fell asleep after being disappointed by a lack of Ted episode. Need to find my drive. Instead I have this headache.

Already in the I'll do it tomorrow mindset. I tend not to like doing things unless my head cooperates with itself.

But I'm a cricket.

GRASSHOPPA!

I perceive conflict, young grasshoppa!

I perceive weakness grassHOPPA!

Oh. Yes. Well. Sorry. It's the red hair. Makes me crazy. And the cold. It uhm. Slows my thought process.

I can't wait until I make it all work.

Don't go too FAST. Don't go too SLOW. GYAH.

I need to goto sleep so tomorrow doesn't suck.

Slow on the uptake

OK, it took me a few days to realize the full irony of dyeing my hair red. And Im not gonna lie, I love it. The irony. The hair is awright.

Meanwhile! As Don Quixote rallied against windmills, so shall I against columns. Fuck every version of the story. I will tear down as many columns as I so choose. Now that I can see them as columns. Down with this unholy temple!

Of course, I do this not through my strength alone, but that is a tale for another time.

Writing a new book. It's called Amanda and the Week-Long Resolution.

It's a work of fiction, of course. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

I am going to lose my fucking mind. Holee shit.

The first rumbles of what may become an actual argument. Or perhaps my apprehensiveness will end up being uncalled for. Either way I'm nervous.

Trying to destroy the columns

Naturally, it's still a struggle to control these impulses.

Especially when that song is referenced. I want to highlight lines of it as well. I won't, though.

Not there, anyway. Here I guess it's okay.

I will.

There was so much poetic nonsense in my head last night. Didn't capture it, fell asleep.

I feel good today, in a tired way. I faced a lot last night. Maybe haven't come to terms with all of it yet, but I'm working in that direction.

For the first time in my life I genuinely want to be a good person. The only unhealthy thing I am unwilling to give up is Jesse.

Crying is like emotional puking. Sometimes it seems to come out of nowhere, but there is always an underlying cause. Sometimes you can feel it coming and try to stave it off. But I guess it's just better to get it over with. You usually feel better afterwards anyway.

I'm not so sure anymore that one can achieve atonement through anguish.

I love Tina Lasorsa. I don't think I've expressed that well or often enough. Hindered by poisons. The way I ingested them, one would think I was trying to build up an immunity! (Oh look, a fun connection I don't intend to backwrite. Poisons and puking. Wheee.)

Guess I didn't say much here. There is so much to say and I wish I could just stillframe last night and keep it as a reminder.

My resolution only happens to coincide with this new year.

"Let go."

And she says it so softly I mistake it for a lover's croon and instead draw nearer, reaching out to run my fingers through her hair.

But it turns to sand and sure enough, runs through.

Bang bang.

I feel sick. And I'm certain it isn't the alcohol because if so, my body certainly forgot to wake up sick.

Cannot interpret and cannot ask.

I've tried anyways. Interpreting, that is. Cannot (will not) ask.

The only answer that makes sense is that it was goodbye. That he put the gun in my hand instead. And yeah, I don't have a choice now do I?

Do I?

Last time I was handed a gun I kept trying to give it back, screaming he pull the damn trigger himself. Well! There was no gunshot I assure you, but somehow that corpse bled out. Talk about a slow and painful death. Though, that isn't fair to bring up. I guess my real point is I know I ought to refuse. But this time I really am painted into a corner. (Imperfect metaphor. Paint dries.) Yeah, paint dries and corpses bleed out.

Now! Here's the real question: In such a metaphor, what does it mean to turn the gun on oneself? And would the outcome be of atonement or spite? (Or both?)

Guys. Guys. I do not know how to shoot a gun. Though from this short of range, it must be hard to miss.