argh

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I can no longer write like I use to. In the tortured, experimental style of my earlier posts I see a zeal for life that no longer manifests itself in the sparse and often thoughtless rambles that I toss out more out of guilt for my languishing site that out of any inspired subject matter. In a word, my Xanga, like myself, is all ennui, all the time. I feel that if I can unscrew my scalp and run my hand along the gray folds of my once febrile brain I will find nothing but the cold hum of routine machinery. Cook. Eat. Study. Get a job. Even recreational reading has not brought me the pleasure it once did. Even worse, I am too lazy to find other stimuli. The New York Times website takes too many clicks, Metacritic is incompatible with the film schedule here, and both Tucker Max and Maddox have sold out.

more on later

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