I'm so excited for 2010. I have no doubt that this will be one of my best years of my life. I'm going to make it that.

I'm going to be more active here, I swear it. This is an awesome community in a ton of ways, and I would very much like to be a part of it.

I mean it this time, I'm going to update this more often.

I bought a digital camera a couple weeks ago, and I'm having great fun with it. I got a Sony @230. I'm not very good with it, but it's fun to learn.

I've also realized a quote that fits me entirely too well.

"I just want everything I've seen in the movies!"

I thought I'd share another piece of poor writing. It's called "The Water Tower." There's a water tower in the middle of my town that I absolutely hate. It's ugly, and tall, and ugly. I wanted to write something Palahniuk-ian about it. This is what I came up with.

I smirked as I flicked the last of my cigarette into the barren field. I was satisfied with my night's work.
I had grown tired of the ugly behemoth of a water tower. Painted white, with a big, ugly, blue "M" on it's side, I hated that water tower. I spent weeks standing in this field, staring at the tower, with the orange backlight from the cement plant in the distance. I hated that water tower. I plotted for weeks. Weeks. Countless hours I spent planning my revenge on that tower for disturbing my skyline. I never gave it permission to ruin my horizon. Before that tower I could see for miles. Then that tower came, and all I could see was that fucking big white tower. I hated that tower. The difficult part of the planning was getting to the top. Fenced off with razor wire, and lit up like the fucking christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, anyone could see me climbing to the top. I stole a city workers uniform from the dry cleaners. Handy tip, for $50, most employees will let you dig through the clothes. For $50, most employees will tell a client the clothes were lost. Clothes get lost all the time at a dry cleaners. The other hard part was how to get my equipment to the top. 400 pounds is heavy. I'm a skinny motherfucker. 400 pounds, skinny motherfuckers and tall towers don't mix well. I found a way though. But that's my secret. For now at least. Who knows, maybe by the end of this I'll tell you. Point is, I got it there. I left another 400 pounds at the base. I wanted this fucking tower gone. I took a casual stroll, not too quick, not too slow, to the barren field where I'd spent so much time screaming at the tower. I pulled out my ipod, and just as I got to my favorite seconds of my favorite song, I hit the button. Boom. Bye-bye tower. What a sight, the tower crumbling, the water pouring down. My only regret is that the water put out all of the fire, so I couldn't see the fucker burn. But I am satisfied.

I hated that fucking tower.

Well. I said in that first thing I'm not much of a blogger. I guess I managed to live up to that. I just don't do much awesome stuff.

Well, first blog. I don't really do blogs. I'm just going to put a thing I wrote. I don't really know what you'd call it, but I suppose it fits MicroFiction. It's called "Dirty Pretty Things"

"I'm going to warn you, I'm not very talented" You tell her. Self-deprecation can be a very useful tool, if you use it right. It's easy to surpass low expectations. You just have to make sure you shit on yourself just right. Too much and you just end up a pathetic sob-story jerk off blah, blah, blah, but too little and her expectations will be just high enough to ruin all that effort you just put into taking off your shirt as she tugs on your belt, saying "I don't care. Any dick is better than my ex." She's succinct. You admire that. As she deftly slinks out of her dress, a sexy little black number, you take a moment to take in the subtlety of her luscious frame. She's tall, and thin. Maybe even a little too thing. Her thighs are toned, and don't meet until they reach your goal, that little trimmed little patch of flesh, covered with nothing more than a half an inch wide and three inch long patch of light blond hair. You force your eyes to continue their ascent, past her flat stomach with it's own focal point trying to steal it's own attention, above her slightly visible ribcage, pausing only to lust after her small, firm breasts, each adorned with a perfect dark nipple. You avoid looking at her face. She could be anyone, as long as you don't look at her face. An astronaut. Your first grade teacher. The hot doctor who stitched your nose after that drunk fight at the bar last month. You don't care. You just want to get your fucking boxers off so you can destroy any remaining semblance of respect you may have for her ivory flesh. Because that's all this is about. Destruction. As you slam into her soft flesh, her bent over and panting, you think of anything, everything else just to prolong this as long as possible, to stretch out each and every second you can steal from the clock on the wall. Even if that clock is already an hour and a half slow. You think of presidents. Geography. Pets. Roadkill. Fruit. Your shit hole of a job. Anything but the heat you're slamming away at with such vigor. You learn to block out the sound of her moans. The sound of flesh colliding with flesh. Her frantic breathing. It all becomes static. White noise. Eventually, silence. And then you blow.

And then you say to her "tell me again I'm an asshole." And she does. And You leave.

And you hate yourself a little more with each girl. You get used to it.