Damn this Heat

The open wound that is Fakiegind has been festering for about four months now, though it seems like much longer. Lately I feel like I've been muttering into a void, and what's the fun in that? The heat really cranked itself up today. I'm stuck babysitting and have discovered that I don't like dealing with poo. Dr. Who was excellent tonight. I almost wept when Rose and the Doctor kissed. It was Christopher Eccleston's last show. He left because he didn't want to get typecast as a Timelord.

Maybe I should do the same. I don't want to get "Blogcast" as some kind of loser with no life apart from clicking away at the keyboard. I have record collecting. There are many fine thrift shops all within biking distance of Fakie Central. If I drop the blog, something else will come along. It always does. I could volunteer at the jail down the street teaching skateboard tricks to inmates.

The last stage in Zen Buddhism is called "The Prison Pass", and many don't make it through. Maybe nobody makes it through. But I will escape the black hole of Fakiedom. All it takes is hitting the "delete blog" button and Fakiegrind will stop troubling your browser, forever. That is, unless another Timelord comes along and resurrects the site from the digital ashes. How absurd that would be!

There are times when I wish that death was the ending of all things. Then I would know that no matter how bad life gets, there would be a final, blissful nullification, an impenetrable darkness, a sound and dreamless sleep. I might even be tempted to suicide, if I knew that this were the case. But I somehow doubt that it is. After all, we're here, aren't we? And who would have thought that something like human lives would evolve out of the great void of space? And if it happened once, it could happen again, and again--Neitzsche's eternal return eternally returning. So why bother with suicide? Maybe there is a way to find the rest I'm looking for even in the midst of life.

There is a flea that lives in a crack in the floorboards by the computer, and whenever I sit down to write it seems I get a bite. I have an itchy line of them across my ankle, the same one I sprained. Blogging, record collecting, skateboarding, consciousness itself is like a flea bite that constantly needs scratching. And then you're told that you'll be free from it when you cease desiring to be free. Well Screw You, wisdom of the east. And pass me the Calamine lotion.