Post that should be about Newfoundland but isn't because I don't feel like it. It was wonderful but I'll write about it later.

Well, I'm home now. And I fully plan on writing a Newfoundland overview at some point....later. But these days I haven't felt much like writing, which is an odd way for me to feel. It is also very bad because I've come to the conclusion that the only way for me to become famous is to write a book or something, as I have neither the talent nor the skill to do anything else. I probably don't have enough writing gusto and je ne sais quoi to be an author anyways, but at this point it is the only way I see to potential fame. FAME.

Buuuut... I haven't written a journal or a blogge or lyrics to songs I never finish in a while. It's been a lazy little while, mentally speaking. This lethargy is just another reason why I'm a failure at life in general.

I ALSO fail because I completely forgot about Song of the Week. So I am going to change it right now.... Ain't she gorgy?

I don't know why exactly I want to be famous. It's insane really. I'm crazy and stupid enough as it is, I'm sure I'd end up as one of those coked out, drunken famous people whose name rings vague bells in people's minds but they can't quite remember why. Still. Despite seeing the private lives of the rich and famous splashed across the tabloids and told in daily 30 second clips on TV, every mundane thing they do twisted into a 'top story', I'm intensely jealous of them. Secretly. So don't tell anyone.

To want fame is probably one of the most masochistic desires there is.

This is like when I was little and all I wanted out of life was the ability to do magic. When I was eleven I cried all night once because my letter to Hogwarts never came..... I'm still convinced the owl carrying it just died along the way and they never realized.

Well, now I'm older and my dreams are more realistic, yes, but just as unlikely to ever come true.




So remember kids, if you shoot for the stars, you will probably land among asteroids. So wear a helmet and elbow pads.

And even if you do make it, you will probably be incinerated by the stars' heat. Or die from lack of oxygen, because, DUH you're in space dumbass.


God I hate those stupid metaphors.
That is why I choose to butcher them.