All I'm Really Trying to Say is: I have looooong greasy hair

My life is chock full of instances where I do horribly deblitating things semi-intentionally, knowing full well what I'm doing as I'm doing it. For some reason I find it fun to be consciously idiotic. Is this what they call sabotaging my own attempts at happiness? I suppose. At least I don't enjoy semi-conscious goddam moronacy. And I hate unconciously perpetuated ignorance; and/or when the conditions for such fruit are prevalent in unaware admiminstrators. But no one likes to hate, do they? Especially not themselves. I get a bad taste in the back of my mouth when I hate something or someone. It's this black, swarthy, thick-liquid, phlegm that swells up in the pit of my throat and threatens to choke. Why, then, do I love hating? Am I really more present when I'm hating someone than when I'm loving them? What is the extent, the boundary of my hatefulness and/or egocentricity? When does it stop? How could you know, you who hast only known my love? Everybody has moments in their life where a free flowing blue light inundates them in a fiercely rosy glow of radical optimism. Moments where their entire existence as an individuated incarnation on this planet is framed in a deep-seated bouyancy of interconnected bliss. Usually this happens when in a car listening to a particularly meaningful peace of music. Light so sharp it cuts enters the travelling space: unbidden, unwelcome.. like a thousand unbearably pleasurable orgasms. Just because this happens to me all the time, doesn't make me narcissistic. It makes me thankful of my ever-apparent destiny: which simply is. So... now that the useless introductions have been dispensed with perhaps I am in a position to say something meaningful. Not this time, though. Brian David.