We must be impressed with human ambition, daring to search and find a unified theory for everything that is. I agree that from the vibrating subatomic particles to the mind-blowing masses swirling around us, physical material itself can be reduced to mathematical sciences. Notwithstanding, it doesn't decode the metaphysical interactions. There is a force. Though He can be scientifically explained, He'd never allow mankind enough time or capacity to discover same equation he used to manipulate our existence. We're already self-destructing as it is. Like I said, the curiosity, however it may be explained through the electromagnetic brain, is commendable.

My pursuit of organization is disguised under a veil of disparate methods. In the process of accomplishing my agenda, I stop to put away a misplaced shoe, I pause to reword a sentence, I straighten out a sloppy stack of papers. So it is with a bit of loose screws that I manage and hope that igniting the portion of my brain where entropy resides, I could maybe, hopefully, tighten up whatever needs tidying up. Good habits would undoubtedly spread out. Picking up clutter, one piece at a time, provides a clearer view to get where I need to be.

Like most days I break my fast, I look forward to it as soon aa I jump off the bed (because I usually startle myself awake). I make an automatic bee line to the kitchen as its one of my kick off simple pleasures. Today I poured cornflakes and soymilk in a bowl, sliced some fresh strawberries and a moderately sized banana. But my favorite form of debauchery, on a rare and special occasion and with company, of course, we head to IHOP, where I gluttonously devour chocolate chip pancakes, eggs and cheese, hash browns, hold the meat, and coffee.

My mind is so lazy. A wealth of knowledge has been acquired and stored, only it takes too many steps to pull out the ladder, climb up to the attic, clear the cobwebs and retrieve what jewels have become relics. Instead of external encouragement, I'd like to develop a personal system of reinforcement, independent of others' autonomous impetus. A custom modified design to fit my intrinsic energies. I need to start myself up, build my own momentum, because I'm actually quite interested in sharing with the world. I have ideas and questions that need surfacing, investigated, turned into physical form.

We're walking right through an infinite amount of dimensions, setting off ripples that will never stop rolling. I close my eyes and travel up the number scale, letting the counter run while asleep. I awake to continue moving through the mysterious grid that contains who knows what, whether matter or nothingness. These forces that move us, that generate our movement, that fire up neurons, that give us desires and intuition… what I would do to touch them, beyond simply perceiving them. The possibilities are endless, like the black in space, like parallel universes, like the loops that curl in time.

There is a pink Hello Kitty band-aid pasted around the length of my right hand's twenty-five year old middle finger. Kero Keroppi was my favorite of the Sanrio gang. The frog was extremely underrated, but he smiled and even winked, ensuing a settling influence on me. I never liked the inanimate cat, even as a child. I was uncomfortable where there was lack of facial expression. She doesn't have eyebrows or a mouth. You can't tell what that sneaky little feline is conspiring in her idle mind. There's nothing cute about her. Anyway, she's way too cheeky for a pussy.

It's no light read, this quest to unify the laws of quantum mechanics and general relativity. To understand the properties of a particle is to wring one's brain. Often do I put down the book, and stare off into my imaginary mock-up holograph and visualize functions. But in a sense, it's a poetic adventure. The work of the universe is simple, yet so complex. Where the weaving of the world's fabric can be interpreted however we like to believe. I think the perfect equation of the giant cosmos is out there, but in our marginal capacity, we'll never solve it.

Your mix cd kills me. It murders me while spinning in my car. It plays into my ears and brings back your scent, your sight, your touch into my day. My memory interprets the sounds as pain, from my head, trickling down alongside the spinal chord fluids, down to my toes. Beautiful songs gone to waste, connected with my irreplaceable experiences, and mostly the looks you gave me that you will give to someone else. The most excruciating thing of it all, is that I keep playing it. When you play my mix, does it stir anything? You weren't affected.

Things that would make a more sane in a 40 hour a week, sedentary, slow, mind-numbingly, IQ-dropping job:

1) Higher Salary

2) Colors, picture books

3) A conversation with a child and their simple, curious minds.

4) A wet bar and cot.

5) Interesting friends that could chat all day long.

6) Fictional faraway land books. That I would own, not borrow from the public library.

7) Humane office chairs

8) A corporate park with trees and a little café.

9) Coworkers, female and pretty boys with awesome weekend stories

10) Coworkers that aren't senile, awful joke tellers and incompetent

What a micromanaging terdhole! Even God created the properties of atoms and left them on their own to take care of business. There are so many pompous men who self-designate themselves as all-knowing, essential taskmasters of their universe and surrounding space-time, not bothering for a nanosecond to consider they overlap on someone else's turf, devastating their individual organizational, extremely efficient work methods. It's not a control issue of mine. All semantics aside, it comes down to common sense. I DON'T NEED YOUR TECHNOPOHIC ASS TELLING ME HOW TO ADJUST A TABLE ON A DOCUMENT!!!!! EVERY DAY!!!! MULTIPLE TIMES A DAY!!!

If my daughter died, I would resign from this world. I'm sure the first weeks I'll rave like a rabid animal, uttering every horrible sound the human voice box can emit. I'll tear my clothes, break everything in reach and despise anyone crossing my line of sight. Eventually my body will wear, quieting down into nothing but trembling whimpers and eventually unnerving silence. My eyes will lose their focus entirely. My breathing will thin gradually, barely ever starting or finishing. I wouldn't will my death; it'll naturally occur after I stop eating, moving, engaging. Another reason I won't bare children.

If it wasn’t for the hyper-diagnosing going on in this country, I would check into Asperger’s Syndrome. Our family genes are tainted with all kinds of bad-wiring. I’m a high functioning woman who got inextricably tangled in the developmental stages. I’ve always felt my world is different, but I’ve never cared to fit in either. THEY have to fit into my structured realm. I group by colors and have delayed reception. I’ve had to learn by trial and error what behaviors and reciprocations are appropriate. Then I stop reading so much and realize…everyone and their brother’s cousin experiences those things.

My issues with food and weight have little to do with physical appearance. At the beach, yes…I’m self-conscience about belly jiggle. But on average terms, it’s not about the common majority finding me magnetically appealing. It’s about how much effort, in general, exerted into getting up and done. All the work involved such as blow drying hair into sleekness, smiling genuinely, eating healthy, wisely primping clean and pressed outfits, updating moral values and character and hydrating for a warm complexion. The pressure is on me. I’m only ugly if I don’t take care of myself, follicle to toenail. And internally.

My magical thinking hasn’t enhanced my view of the world. It’s black magic that spreads disease inside of me. Paranoia that people can read my thoughts, fears of demons whispering my secrets to God, imagined tragedy as pastime. My fantastical thinking repeat offender is inadvertently setting me up to be hated, exposed, ridiculed, beaten down to a living carcass. Every time I express rage, contempt, or discontentment over someone, I believe they will find out and gruesomely take revenge by paralyzing me in an eternal horror, forced to watch myself recommit guilt laden moral blunders at a homegrown hellfire field.

There hasn’t been much positive reinforcement in my actions since possibly infancy, forming my tendency toward the negative, neurotic and nervous. The barrage of emotions I experienced required more than average encouragement to feel settled in my behavior. I don’t remember what my family would tell me, but they accused of over dramatization and experiencing a wild untrue imagination, if not ignored. Every family displays tough love. Some of us just believed what they instilled upon us, because our right brain hadn’t met the left hemisphere. Then there’s the cultural issue. I’ve got some ingrained core thinking patterns to undo.

Merriam Webster's word of the day: Spume. Look it up. I'm not defining it. I'm a word I can grow fond of. It's the first I hear about it. I'm sure I've come across it before, but now its presence and existence is forever stored in my bank. It's basically the same spelling as its Spanish counterpart: Espuma, leading me to deduce it has a Latin root. Awareness of its etymology always helps retain a new and palatable word. If I include it in my 3-a-day quota, it'll be mine forever. Well, I've upped it to five with older age.

My mind is open, like Paul Erdos. As if I were about to tackle a mysterious complexity of an unsolved numeral structure. All my peripherals have expanded, the colors have dialed up to Technicolor, and my thoughts are coming in four dimensional pictorials. I've been hyper multitasking and carrying on so many conversations at the time that my ears will give out, my tongue will dry up, my thumbs will fall off. I love it when stimulus collides into one big bang in my brain, as if projectile missiles were aimed at my head. I love it, I love it.

It's getting hard for me to write here in the office. My thoughts are as plain and beige as the walls. I can't recollect all the material I want to fit into organizational pockets of storytelling. Maybe its allergies, maybe its deficiency of stimulation or the medicine but I can't seem to access the parts of my brain that enable fluidity. The spark is missing. People used to be my spark, the ones who mattered and made connections with me, but they're constant coming and going cause a system override. I rely on myself to think in color and order.

Surely, the invention of the edit function, the undo button, was not a hard concept to bring to life. We're hardwired to examine our previous doings and find a better way to have done things. Some fall into regret, many prefer to look at it as a learning lesson and a richer experience in life. Because of mild OCD, I obsess about which exact point in time I should've taken a different course, and where better tangents would've led to the wisest decision toward a successful outcome. Instead of rumination, if only I could right click and make it right.

Stuck song:

Make yourself at home, cause I'm going out, across the street, to get us some water. Cause this water's brown, and I'm so embarrassed to have you here but I want you around. Usually I'd sing or play on my guitar, but I know it won't get very far, cause you like music. It makes you move. And mine has a groove, but it's nothing I can prove.

Please know what I mean, when I say nothing. When I say nothing.

Things that I buy, the things that I thing. Haven't made this a better place to be.

The Gasparilla Race runs this next upcoming weekend. 5K, 15k. There's the half and regular marathon, but I sure haven't trained for the latter. I'm catching late registration, so I have to put in extra monies. I'll charge new running shoes and hot new outfit, red sports bra and matching shorts, a black top. I'm not yet comfortable displaying abs. No one needs to see jiggles and wiggles. I'm going to meticulously carbo load. Wish I would've heard about it sooner to be properly prepared.

But I'm going.

And I will finish

. . . even if I pass out on the course.

Beautiful, even sexy tickets, simmer at home. Impatient to be checked in at box office. Slightly Stoopid is performing and they will rock the island. A fusion of reggae, ska, punk. Inspired by Sublime, Zepellin, Chilli Peppers.

It. Will. Be. Insane !!!
(this calls for 3 exclamation marks and some bold action) !!!

And if its not…I will inhale the second-hand herb and fly high.

If that's not enough, Mason Jennings, Badfish, The Expendables, Lady Gaga and Ratatat will be coming to town. I'll sure be painting it. This spring/summer is will be one flowing adrenaline rush! Da daa tad um!

Whether its maturation or surrender, I've decided to stop taking the disappointments in people so seriously. Accordingly, I can't take myself too seriously. I'm ready to lay back and quit resisting so much. My social group does not have evil intentions. And they may never learn about boundaries, consideration and respect, so I have to let go of those expectations and let them be. And if I can't handle jackassness, I'll just stay home or switch up my entourage for a few days. If they're required to have patience with my shortcomings, I can reciprocate. It'll all work out swell.

Sunlight has such a wonderfully exhilarating effect on my mood. I can sleep less, allowing productivity. My eyes open wider, allowing a brighter disposition. I glow from the inside out. Somehow that even makes rainy days all the more welcome. Come down, precipitation! Because tomorrow the sun will be up! The beach isn't going anywhere and forty five minutes of my life is a breeze to visit the bay, the gulf. Three hours is a zen drive, with my chill calypso style music sailing me all the way until I hit the coast and take in that precious glittering ocean.

People have a misconception of what happiness is. It's an elevated level of contentment. It'd be abnormal to reside in a chemical state of bubbling joy. It's okay to be sad, realistic about everything that sucks. But they immediately assume the second you perceive approaching valleys, call an emergency!!! Pursue all ends to rise above, denying the hardship requiring acceptance. Quick, buy something to drown the sorrow! Eat and treat yourself to a little bit of egotism! Happiness only takes some effort. Enjoy the middle. It sure shouldn't alarm the urgency people credit it if you're not high up there.

In my imagined rationality, I will never be a crime victim. Since the factual truth is that everyone is at risk, I've learned to take measurements, developing a balanced point of view and respective fear on the matter. I don't fear my surroundings, therefore I mentally rehearse being attacked, held at gunpoint, pinned down for rape. Although I haven't gone as far as learning self-defense, I play the scenes in my head, preparing how to avoid panic, not to freeze up, and face my attacker as if he was expected… throwing him off guard when I show him unconquerable fearlessness.

If they weren't telling me so, I wouldn't think I was weird material. I know I'm not quite average. I'm a soul of multiples ages, with perspectives to spare. Strange, however, is not properly descriptive. It's not special or gifted (although I've heard those before). I feel things more and differently, but simple physics doesn't separate that I'm aware of my differences with the masses. There's a huge population with similar circumstances as mine. Guess they're dubbed odd as well. If they can't step outside the box, at least acknowledge some of choose to wear our neurosis on our sleeves.

If I were a serial killer – Disclaimer: I'm not, I sure as hell wouldn't post this online – I wouldn't let bloodlust and impulsivity rat me out. Of course, that's if I didn't want to get caught, which is another game altogether. Since modus operandi is so predictable, I'd study the behavioral archives and be a step ahead of what the average homicidal psychopath would do and keep running off my own trail. I'd be my own profiler and find creative ways to be insolvably random. This means I would enjoy being hunted by the FBI, which unsurprisingly is still predictable.

I want to say he's back , but he never really left. He's been consistently in and out, no matter what dynamics we had going on. I loved him, and I hated him. I excused him and I forgave him. We have emotional problems. I admit them. He won't admit them to me….. until he finally did. It doesn't mean much except that now he's bound to dig himself permanently into my life. His baby steps are month-longs in between, but he's willing to give more information without my inquiry. I have to start running before he captures me forever.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.

What? You think I was gonna leave a gap?
Silly…