I think I'll write fiction for this site.
I have written this explanation - and rewritten it - many times over the last few weeks. It's not so much an attempt at covering for myself as much as it's to ensure that I update this site at all.
This creative slump is characteristic of my regular cycle of productivity. My interests, wants, and needs change faster than a chimpanzee with ADD. Further loosening my tether to reality, society, and consciousness is my own incredulity towards the absurdity of life.
Someone told me a week ago that I seemed "happier." Seemed, perhaps. Over the past four years I think I've been grappling with the stages of grief in regards to my own mental health. It's only once I had hurdled the final step - acceptance - that I was percieved as having improved and become healthy. There is, I think, a layer of truth to this. I've simply become so used to doing nothing, and not wanting to do anything, that I no longer question why. It's that question, that frustration, which had twisted me into a knot. The constant wondering if I would ever be better, if I'd ever accomplish something of value.
In a word, I've been distracted lately.
As I survey this website, which had only days before been a bare-bones skeleton of poor formatting and terrible typography, a tear glimmers in my compound eye - an impressive feat, since I don't have tear ducts. I can't help but to muse on how these sites grow up so fast, and the hours of work I've devoted to this site in four short days.
This project is consuming my life, but not in a bad way. Things have a way of doing that to me - I recall the brief period I had of playing nothing but Warcraft III, or the years in school where I watched nothing but Futurama on the Netflix spyware. It might be some attention deficit, or perhaps I just have an addictive personality. But this site, and writing my stupid reviews and sprinkling them with swearwords like a gourmet chef sprinkles asiago cheese flakes on a risotto before kissing his fingers proudly, fills me with purpose. The dissonance between what I want to do and what I'm able to do is beginning to synchronise and turn into a chord that symbolizes possibility.
You like that? For more prose purpler than a lesbian masochist's butt after a six hour S&M session, check out Max Payne, in stores fifteen years ago.
What's really pissing in my gears right now is the fact that all the mainstream web browsers I've tried are poorly-optimized tire fires. The only reason to use any version of Firefox is if you want to use Tor without having to configure the thing as much and decide to download the Tor browser package. The slow connection speed of Tor kind of covers up the unforgivable slowness of Firefox from a memory point of view. As for Chrome - are you joking?
It's probably my bad, in truth, for not having ready access to a computer that's halfway decent. For me, it comes down to if I want to use a faster laptop with Windows 10 on it (It's not technically mine so I can't scrub it and install Mint or something) or if I want to use my laptop from 2003 that has an OS that isn't malware but is slow as shit and has a failing hard drive. Pick your poison I guess.
I guess I'm just boggling at how these big tech companies put out such garbage - not even from a privacy standpoint, but from the standpoint of software design and optimization. Why would I ever use a browser that clogs up my ram by opening new instances of itself for every tab I have open? Especially if I'm working on a writing project that takes more than six minutes to crap out? If I'm writing an actual essay or some shit I'm going to have at least three tabs open, even just for critical essays for things I like and consume frequently.
But what do I know. Lots of people use these browsers and this software that gobbles up your personal info like the god damn privacy cookie monster, and we all know that ignorant consumers can't be wrong if there's a lot of them, can they?
New "Bug of the Now" tomorrow. I know it's a gimmick and I know nobody's exactly on the edge of their seats for a single paragraph about a random insect, arachnid, or similar anthropod species, but it's my site damnit and bugs are important to me.
I forgot how hard my creative juices flow when I write. I might come down with creative juice glaucoma. Smoke some pot, lower my creative juice pressure.
Tomorrow I'm going in to see my spine surgeon on account of my scoliosis. I can't wait to see how deformed I am in the X-ray. I feel like it's gotten substantially worse since last I've checked. With my luck I'll be going into surgery next week, and becoming a cyborg with metal in my spine. I can picture it now; The surgeon lowers the operating table, turns to the nurse, and he murmurs in apprehension, "The process is complete. She is more machine, now, than man." And I begin to stir, the first thing I notice is that I can see the veins in my eyelids - my vision had been augmented as well. My teeth taste like iron and my skin creaks most unaturally, like leather.
A pleasant thought! That I might awaken from disquieting dreams to discover that I had metamorphosed - though not into a verminous insect, but rather a cyborg! A cyborg with back problems.
I wouldn't take issue with being an insect, even a verminous one.