Livi vs. The Lion

I just got a strange urge to shave my head. I was thinking of just ending this post with that sentence, but that would be too weird of me. I just find it peculiar that a lot of people have jokingly and/or seriously told me to shave my head. It would feel amazing but I would feel way too self conscious about how that would balance out the rest of me.

Hmm. Silly way to start a blog entry. Ah well.

I've been a complete internet bug lately. Well, always I guess. Just a lot more recently. I'm in a relationship with my laptop, and it's the most fulfilling relationship I've ever been in. I feel naked without it almost. Wow. I'm going to make an effort to get out more.

I'm sitting in my bed with my hood over my head contemplating the future.
I just said that sentence in my head slowly and it had a cool rhythm to it. I love stuff like that.

I love writing in fragments, too.

Because my thoughts are never organized. There's way too many of them floating around and the ones that I grab at and try to make any more sense of get butchered and end up on this page. Hmm. That was too self-loathing. I'm not self-loathing. I just mean that once the words are on the page, they no longer seem to convey the same kind of emotion that I had when they were just a thought in my head. These are just simple observations that I'm making right now...no point.

::???:: ::sigh::

I guess I'm just tired. I've got apartments, money, school, arrangements for my dog, work, transportation, etc on my mind right now. And I'm starting to think I really have the swine flu. I've got a hack that just won't quit. Hopefully not the case. sdjgsgsigugskjnvsugywieigswdf.

I haven't written any long rants on here in a while, and I thought I'd have a go at it but it looks like there's nothing up there right now. I hardly feel eloquent with words anymore. But I'm hoping that going to school for writing will change that. I still love to do it, I just doubt this is an interesting read.
Every once in a while I look back on my old journals (internet as well as written) and just read all the old angsty entries. I get so embarrassed. I guess just at myself. Every time I go back and read something I've written, it could be years or even hours old, I just don't see how I could have felt a certain way to write what I did. Looking back at journals years old, I'm not even the same person. In some ways I wish I was, in others, I'm very glad I'm not.

I can't wait to get out of this town. It will just be strange because once I finally move, I won't know what place to call my home when I come back here. My home base.

Alright, I'm going to go cuddle with my puppy until I can't anymore. Tearing me up.