Writing With Nothing To Say

I'd feel pretty good if I had something to write about right now... I'm just going to warn you. I'm bored and I'm writing because I have nothing better to do. This is going to be one mixed up journal (probably).

I started reading poetry last night. It's a book, over one hundred years old, called Bryant's Poems. I picked it out becuase it looked really old. I know I shouldn't judge a book by it's cover, but my shallowness has proven quite rewarding in this instance. I have discovered that this author's preception of life is quite similar to my own. He highly values the same things that I do, only he doesn't do much thinking about love. I figure he must have been rather old when he wrote them which would explain his lack of iteration on such a topic. I know the elderly still value love, but most of the older people I have spent time with hold their amazement towards nature and the beauty in the things they may have taken for granted in life. Bryant speaks about nature the same way I think about it. He uses King James language, but for me that only adds to the flavor.

I'm working out really hard these days. I'm also taking suppliments to put on the pounds. Basically I'm on a 4000 calorie a day diet. I've been doing this for over a week now, and I don't have a single extra pound to show for it. I seriously believe that my body's possibility of containing a rip in the space-time continum might not be completely outlandish. I'll just keep working out and taking those nasty milk-shakes until something happens. If not, I shall bost owning the world's most perfect strand of DNA (as far as weight stabalization and metabolism is concerned).

Well, some friends are coming over. I'm gunna go now. Peace and love.