So it's been two weeks? Something like that. A long time, anyway. I guess blogging has simply stopped being a habit of mine, and that's not good, because I like blogging, and I admire people who blog often and well. All of this easily and obviously adds up to blogging often and well myself, but I think I lost sight of my priorities a while ago.

World of Warcraft hasn't helped. It's a hell of a lot of fun, sure. I get to live out my fantasies of heroism and magic, and oh is it satisfactory. But it doesn't really result in anything. Doesn't really add up to anything in the end. Years from now I might kick myself for spending so many countless hours on that game. What could I have accomplished? I've spent over sixteen days playing it. Sixteen solid days. Over four hundred hours. It's disgusting.

Of course, my life is so small that I'm not sure what else I'd do with my time. I could write, I guess. I'm writing a story, as usual. I'll probably even finish it, too, but only if I actually work on it. See, that's a problem of mine. I expect things to work on themselves. I feel that if I talk about being a writer - "Oh, I'm writing a story" - I'll actually be one, case closed, poof kazam, and there I am. A real gosh darned writer! And in his native environment, no less!

I could practice trombone, I'm sure. Lord knows I haven't picked it up in the past four weeks except for band. Every Monday I go through the same ritual: I wake up, grope for my glasses, and loudly say either, "Oh shit," "goddammit," or "fuck." I then curse myself for being a terrible trombone player, anxiously suffer through the school day, and go to my lesson to face the long suffering disappointment of my teacher, because she knows I can do better.

I used to be able to draw. Did you know that? Years ago I could make a not half bad sketch-portrait if I put my mind to it. I'd just concentrate and draw it, draw what I saw. I remember this very cute boy in eighth grade I sketched after one of the EOGs, and then since I was embarrassed drew little stick figures scampering all over the page. And that sketch of my cat as a kitten curled up next to the heat vent is still pinned to the refrigerator. Hobbes Porse Blizzkin is what I titled it.

And of course, the most famous story of my latent artistic talent. When I was four or so, my parents enrolled me in this art class at the art museum. We'd be a bunch of kids and get together and do all kinds of arts and craft. And you know what I made? This amazing papier mache puppet, all kinds of different colors and googely eyes, huge nose. Absolutely terrifying, but my parents always say that when they had the final parent open night, the night when all the parents of the little kids would come in and ooh and ahh over their children's work, and the teacher would walk around and tell them how their child was doing, that teacher just walked up to my parents and said, "You know he's got it," and walked away.

Where is that now? Wasn't I meant for better things? All I've left myself is half-decent school skills. And at that I'm good enough for recognition but not enough for awards. In third grade I was so bored in school that I did a book report on the entire Redwall series. You know, Brian Jacques? Monk badgers and warrior mice? In third grade! And now I'm reading Stephen King. Junk fantasy. The high point of my literary career is reading "The Satanic Verses" twice. Ooh I'm so fancy and high falootin. Now I can brag that I read it! Twice!

And I spend my time doing nothing. Zip. Nada. Zilch. I stalk myspace and various unsuspecting strangers. Slay the dragons of Blackrock Spire. Emote teenage angst, usually to myself, and if I'm particularly tired, to the entire world. At school I get pissed off at my friends and then myself. Dream about the drive to and from school. Freeze up and freak out when I have to do something new and spontaneous. Jesus, I'm barely able to get money from the ATM. It always seems like luck that I'm able to get gas.

Isn't it a little ironic that I'm able to be more intimate with everyone at once than with one person at a time? It's like I don't know how to open up and talk with anyone. All my life has turned to is... I don't even know what, but the fact of the matter is that I don't like it.

I once criticized someone for self hate. "Why hate yourself?" I asked him. "Shouldn't you hate your life? Your situation? The people who put you there?" His answer wasn't satisfactory, but it's making a certain amount of sense nowadays.

Well. I am going to the state fair tomorrow. Assuming I can get the money, find my way, park, find my friends, maybe get a ride so I don't have to worry about driving after nine, and so on. Even if it does work out right - and trust me, that's not a guarantee, I wouldn't freak out like this if it was - I'll probably be too worked up, anxious, and depressed to enjoy it.

Sounds like I need to relax a little bit.