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892. Or, Curry Chicken Only Works While High.

I do try, on occaision, to be more than I am. And at that I fail miserably. Should I be kicked one more time for trying, I'll not try.
I spend time trying to figure out the life my neighbors lead. I disliked her instensely, with the loud music and door slamming, but one day while I was walking back to my apartment from doing laundry, face nearly covered by sheets, she opened my door for me, and since then, I've felt nothing but pity.
You won't ever be nothin' more than a broke ass nigga. Then, weeks later, she lets him back into the house.
I wonder with all that I know, which I'm finding out is more than I thought, why I don't give this knowledge more freely. I just advise on nothing at all. And why can't I figure out what to do with my life? I can't spend it all wondering what to do, and successfully doing nothing.
I can do nothing as well as anyone. All of this circle jerking of work, this fucking daisy chain of command. It's amazing I function at all. But I've figured it out.
You can't do anything having to just do with what you love: you'll wear it out. All you can do, is do what you love: what you love has to be a verb. It has to be the doing. At the end of the day, what do I have to show besides eight hours in front of a computer?
You're less likely to spill if you use a bowl. But all I did was get curry all over the counter.
Don't edit while intoxicated, and be sure to leave your tools out.

9:21 p.m. - 2004-10-25

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