Down With Talk:

It struck me, about 5 seconds prior to writing this and as I was thinking about what to write, that I am tired of talking . . . talking in the sense of saying this is me or this is how I see things, what I want to do, how I want to be. I complain/whine about it every chance I get (which I'm guessing negates the actual happening of such).

Brief interlude.

On the subject I just emailed the Edge, a new school newspaper that is trying to get off the ground, about being part of the staff. I can sell myself pretty good (not to mention the fact that, despite my own twisted take on it, I am awesome). So we will see.

I think I could pull journalism. Shouldn't be too hard. I'm not a big public relations person though, but I figure I can do anything I want . . . willpower baby (that is how I lost 100 lbs, not starvation).

Mmmm . . . Tacos. I'm hungry. I think I'm going to makes taco-things for dinner. Taco-things being cheap-home-made versions of Chipotle. Actually as I'm imagining this I think they will turn out good. It helps that I am a wicked awesome cook though (that is if I have a recipe, sometimes my experiments don't turn out . . . the worst was the infamous Smore Smoothie).

Sometimes I wish you could buy pills that changed bits and parts of your personality. Like I could pop an aspirin and all of a sudden be a little more bold and confident. This morning I had a moment of that. My partner went to a "Traditional" Bachelor party this weekend: strippers and all. I had it all prepared what I was going to say if he started telling me about it . . . I was gonna take his arse down. But alas, it never came to that.

Maybe next time.

Luv,
Clay