I'm back and I'll kill you.

I have decided that I like blogging, so I am back. Dive in.

The other night I had what many would call a metaphysical crisis. I was laying in bed listening to music on my iPod when I was faced with the sudden brutal realization that the infinite nature of the universe requires so much energy (or mass, thanks Einstein) in order to influence change that no matter what I do with my life it pretty much doesn't mean shit. Some lump of Silicon floating around in the Buttcrack Nebula can crash into some other interstellar mass and create more of a universal change than me burning every book on the planet. This was troubling, and I started to chew on my pillow.
Then the romantic inside me that I try so desperately to murder by reading my fill of Franz Kafka and Cormac McCarthy chimed in his two cents. I started to think that maybe I didn't need to move planets, but that I could find monumental meaning in the little things, like kissing and petting cats. As if the universe itself was striking down my feeble human emotion, my cat started to go apeshit crazy in the hallway, jumping into the walls and tearing at the carpet. In terror I climbed from my bed and downed nearly an entire bottle of water. Or what I thought was water.

Don't pee in a Gatorade bottle near your bed, no matter how badly you want to go back to sleep.