Hi, I am Macky's Busted Resolve

There's this shore, where I keep writing things on the sand, and the water keeps chasing it down into nothingness at different annoying intervals.

Last Saturday my mother tries to paint my nails this deep red color, and together we realized there is a reason they offered this as a service in salons. My father asks why we color our nails and I ridicule this question with a smug, "Trip lang."

I find myself stunned, often, at my lack of focus. Things spin around the universe of who I am in an altogether different orbit. I notice this and wonder whether it is really worth comparing the trajectory of these slices of life with how things go for other people.

Are we having fun yet?

Last weekend I read everything there was to read inside the room that used to be the Bartender Extraordinaire's helipad (so named for a number of reasons, one of which is that since a 2-inch thick piece of plywood separated five-sixths of his room from my aunt and mine's he would often randomly toss things over to our room in the middle of benign conversations). My brother's fare when it came to the written word had to do solely with his line of work, so I'm really referring to the books I brought there while I'm room-sitting. The cutest thing on earth, despite having issues, gave me a couple of wonderful things to read, Diane Ackerman's The Natural History of Love (just when I was about to finish the one about senses), some guy's The Book of Flying, the Evil/Genius article of Wired (the team's actually, haha).

I also read some of Michael Moorcock's Elric (the entire saga in one book), all of the travel magazines at home, a running magazine (where I learn that there are now ways to see whether you're running right by measuring the amount of pressure made by your soles when you run), even reread The Secret and The Secret of Film-Writing. I watched the latest Heroes episodes, watched the Living the Dream episode on House, watched some of The Kingdom, waited for the Hardy Heron to finish downloading.

Needless to say, I am bored.

These are the blog entries I hate writing. By now you know this is cheating. You can't create things by writing about things that happened on account of there being nothing happening in your life. I know this, of course. Be back soon.