They say that you only use 12% of your brain at one given time. For an example, you don't need to know what chocolate ice cream tastes like while you're reading 60 pages of HP6 at 6 in the morning (sure, it's a little satanically poetic with all the 6s in it, but it did happen to me today) so your brain stuffs the chocolatey frozen goodness back into the caverns of your brain, free to grow cobwebs until you're standing in front of your freezer and must choose a flavor of desert before you grow blind with the flourescent light.

WOW was that a run-on! Quick, everyone, admire my run-on, before I finish my thought! Four and a half lines of grammatical illegality! Awesome!

Anyway, I used a very obscure 12% while I was updating my iTunes library. I mean sure, it's quite the lovely thing when you pop a CD into your computer and the names of songs and albums just appear, but unfortunately THIS thespian's mother decided to unplug the wi-fi, and then take the Airport (the wi-fi device) and sleep with it under her pillow. Probably not under her pillow, but she certainly escorted it up the stairs, which is quite silly.

Whoa, hey! Did you see that up there? A good three-liner sentence!

Am i just not as choppy as normal, or am I slowly transforming into Faulkner?
Perhaps Faulkner tried to kill me as a child, but by my dead mother's love alone was I saved, and by so doing ended his reign for 15 years, only to hear when my hormones reach critical mass that he's as bad as when he tried to kill me the first time, so whoop-de-fuckin'-do, the old dog's back at his old dirty tricks, with those nasty sentences the size of paragraphs: a veritable gerbil breeder, perfecting his craft until the usually docile rodentia grow to the size of dragons or giants, or worse, the average size of my ego.

Five lines, that's my best so far. I feel like I'm writing really well in this entry, so I guess I'll just keep writing until it sucks, like a two year old playing with his plane until the one he's on crashes.

Oy, too depressing. Time to read more Harry Potter.
BUT FIRST! A quoted portion from Dumbledore and Harry, pages 61-62:
"Sir -- I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters..."
"Yes, I received one myself," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you find it useful?"
"Not really."
"No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor."
"I didn't . . ." Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not.
"For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry . . . although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preference before impersonating myself."

Pardon me whilst I google "Dumbledore's jam preferences".
Unfortunately, there is nothing absurd, or even remotely amusing. Just a couple of Harry Potter forums, and not a single image result. I'm gently disappointed in the human race, but since I am a goldfish, it's only a matter of time until I feel better about - COOL! IT'S A CASTLE!

If you don't get that joke, I will hug you, slap you, and then tell you what it means.
I think now that were I to write an existentially troubled and troubling novel, (think Sylvia Plath meets Chuck Palahniuk) I will write it from the point of view of a goldfish: a child's pet, with its own completely disgarded agenda, an entire life just as valuable as the seven-year-old's scuffed up sneakers, the indispensable gift of life seduced by the wretched whore known to the world other than I as human entitlement, the principle of which being that since I can stick one of my opposable thumbs up my own ass, I can use the other to screw YOU over!

That was the climax of this entry, I hope you enjoyed it. There's nothing really to look forward after that, just me leaving you panting and sweaty, hogging the bathroom with an open door and then not wanting to cuddle at all, and as you press against my carcass, unconscious on so many levels (after all, I am pretending to be male) you can wonder whether I know that you faked it or not, when I really don't give a shit because I got my 13 seconds of heaven after what seemed like hours of playing hide and seek with your G-spot (really wondering what the G stands for) and I can get it tomorrow just as easily by lying in your ear, pretending to apologize, and hugging you from behind.

Holy fuck, seven! That's where I stop. That's excellency.