I think you know that life is a magical parade when you call someone, and when the person who answered puts down the phone to go get who you want, you can hear porn in the background.

Then again, I think I decided long ago to give up on all that worrying, emo bull. The world is a magical fun fun go parade! Look at it! You can't tell me that the world isn't hilarious and built for your amusement when there are things out there like platypi and Manos: The Hands of Fate. You can't be depressed when you realize that someone thought dressing a band up as Indians and construction workers was a good idea. Yay!

Naturally I'm being a bit hypocritical--most of my writing, for reasons beyond me, comes out a bit melancholy and dramatic. Perhaps my subconscious realizes optimism doesn't sell, unless you really want to be shelved next to books of babies dressed like this. Not that the melancholy stuff'll sell, either--I'd have to finish something, and get some divine talent from the heavens to make it good--but it's the thought that counts, right? At least we're not dealing with this sort of tomfoolery.

Other than my apparent emo-ness in writing, I do think that the world's a pretty nice place. If you worry about stuff, you'll give yourself a nice self-fulfilled prophecy over it--and besides, nothing's worth a hernia.

Perhaps this, too, is one reason why it is so easy for one to simply love the world. It won't stress you out, calling at three AM and telling you it's leaving. You won't find it attempting to drink Drano. It isn't going to ask you when you're going to settle down and have a few kids with it. Oh, no. You're free of all obligations here! All you really need to do is try not to dump oil into groundwater supplies. Besides that, it's a lot more beautiful, a lot more moving than one human could ever hope to be. In the harsh daylight, this all seems absurd and silly to say, but I know how the world feels at 4 AM, when the whole world is inky with the hour, when you're filled with a contentment because it's too late to be hyper; too early to be worried about the next day. I know what it is to go out in the middle of the summer and smell the air, billowing up from pavement and pollen alike. I know what it is to stand in a parking lot in the winter, laughing with friends and feeling the cold lancing into your shoes, when the only desire to be felt is one for a pair of gloves to wear during a snowball fight. I know what it's like to hold a trilobite fossil or to look at a picture of a thylacine, and wish them back into being--just for a moment, just so you can really see.

And I agree. We all have our stories to tell. Hence why I ended up here, along with the reason that I need to write more to practice. All the same, we writers are such pathetic creatures, and, while our stories may seem important to us, we all just rationalize they won't be to anyone else. So we just take the moments, we embelish them, we give them to a character who is cut from our flesh. And then we present it to the world and we make everyone look at it, make them all shake our grubby little hands and pat our heads. Then we attack eachother and get strung out if someone else has even one word like our own and we call "plagerism." We squirm and beg for love, for money, for sex, for recognition. We whore what talent we have.

I'd like to wrap this up by saying that hell is a room full of writers.