I'm currently reading 'We need to talk about Kevin' written by Lionel Shriver and revelation bleeds from the pages. The woman is nothing but a genius and if I ever had a genocidal son I would be the protagonist character Eva. Its only too true about the dangerous distance that exists between what we feel and what we're actually prepared to admit.
I don't think i'm particularly agrivated or perturbed by anything in my existance other than people i'd give a kiss with my fist whatever the date but there is generally always something i should talk about but can't. I'd sooner eat myself into a calorie-oblivion, do enough college work to write my own curriculum or listen to enough club music to run Ibiza's night scene than approach shit that I know i'd feel uncomfortable openly admitting. This isn't some heart-string-tugging rendition of what its like to be me and anything i wouldn't want to admit isn't worth a paragraph in an agony column but like average man solipsism can mentally get the better of us, either that or i'm the self-righteous asshole one ignorant 'hippo'-crite accused me of being, thanks Char :).

On a more physical note I maimed my first object in the car today aside the time i blew my tire out driving like a kiddie on speed. I managed to obliterate a parking cone much to the enjoyment of my passenger and anyone else who happened to watch my hit and run. This is something i'll admit sans the feeling i drive like a granny because it generally was funny, i even had the tact to ask how close to the cone i was as i drove it into the ground. You'll be next if you piss me off.
Leave me something witty in a comment if you've actually read this. The failure to tag prospective loggers-to my blog(gers) has left me a little disheartened,actually.