Bio Feedback in my eyes

I made spaghetti tonight. It's the first night I've cooked spaghetti since I've lived here, though I've had the pasta and sauce in a jar since I moved in almost a year ago; the oregano leaves, garlic salt, pepper, parsley flakes. The ingredients sat on the bottom shelf of the cupboard space that stores my food. They were leftover purchases from some store trip to Ralph's with Randy. I hadn't strained noodles since doing it with him when we used to cook pasta at home for our dinners together. Carbs, lovely carbs.

I have my "away message" on AIM right now so that I can type here. Why not just turn AIM off? What is so important about being plugged in and connected to the world? What might we miss? The control to turn it on and off.

Staring down the barrel.... haha, what a picture that I can understand with a different clarity now. Staring down the barrel at 30 approaching there are the eyes of "successful people" who wonder what it is that I'll do with my life. I doubt that I have the patience to so anything for very long. Dragon Systems Naturally Speaking. Maybe I can dictate a novel.

I got plenty of sleep today. 8 hours. I'm wearing glasses. Resting my eyes for a few days; maybe a week. This end of the month has come very quickly. 1/12 of the year experienced and fading.

"Umm... Yea." That's the response that Cardwell and I came up with describe my weekend. Last Thursday I get a car, cancel a trip to Salt Lake City, drive to Las Vegas, inhale that city's filth, share the experience with a best friend and a new friend, drive home (escaping) in record speeds back to The OC to live high on the life that is mine---racing to dance clubs, drinking, sensing, tasting a little bit of my soul when I cough up from being congested with too much fun.

I wrote once that the warmth felt from drinking and doing drugs was a false sense of security that blanketed people and not a true source of inner fire. What do I know of it? What indeed? Born a fire sign...... aren't all of my various shades a warmth of their own?

One hand lightly sweating, the other completely dry. The palms much more moist, the knuckles lined and cracked like desert valleys. I'm not really a storyteller, just an observer of the world around me.