Randomness

This is mostly a test to see if I once again fixed the news system. It keeps breaking because I forgot the password to my stats page and can’t delete the old logfiles. I keep meaning to e-mail tech support about that.

That was nerd stuff. I’m sorry.

Every time I go to the bathroom I check behind the shower doors to see if someone is waiting in there to jump out and stab me. It’s become a subconcious ritual. Some might call me paranoid, but I’m almost 20 years old and haven’t been stabbed in the bathroom once. You can’t argue with the stats.

The future wears high-heeled shoes with double straps, and dances when nobody’s looking.

What does that even mean? Why do I think things I can’t understand? What dying braincell decided I absolutely needed to think about what kind of shoes the future would wear? It all makes very little sense.

When I was a child I had a spirograph. It came with plastic attachments that allowed me and my brother to make crazy circular designs on paper we stole from the printer upstairs. And then we’d pin them all on the fridge with magnets — all of them. And then they’d all come flying off when someone closed the fridge door too fast.

This random childhood memory holds no meaning, and yet it sticks in my head — maybe because those spirals were the best visual art I ever produced — and now I’m trying to assign it meaning. I love meaning. I look for meaningful messages in TV commercials, cartoons and reruns of Saved by the Bell. And more than anything right now, I wish that I could find some meaning in my life.

I know I have some somewhere. Beyond this hollow summer, provinces away, east and west. Tucked away in some notebook in my closet or sprinkled across cyberspace in writing filled with too many god damned dashes and a confusing flow. The trick, and at this point I feel it’s a trick on the same level as pulling a three-headed rabbit out of a Boston Red Sox hat, is finding enough of that meaning to hold onto. To make it feel like I’ve got something: a foothold on this wall covered with fingernail scratches. I need meaning in myself.

But my brain is scattered thoughts — shoes, Idaho and mysterious cities where people devour one another in an endless quest for loneliness. The phrase “I never realized how cold it was in here” said by bright red lips in a whispered tone. Dust and wind and leaves spinning. Like spirographs. Meaning.

I’ve been writing this for two hours, on and off. I just meant it to be a test of the cgi — and the funny little story about me checking the shower. Instead, I tried to put meaning into this post. I can’t stop myself.

Isn’t it possible that some things mean nothing at all?