tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-339625412011-04-21T19:36:15.950-07:00Niamhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14828010555702070309noreply@blogger.comBlogger11100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33962541.post-1157563762348527912006-09-06T10:15:00.000-07:002006-09-06T10:29:22.363-07:00<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I suppose this blog should be dedicated to something more creative than my other journal, the worth of which I seem to have relegated to the listing of the most desultory information possible, but in that supposedly funny internet colloquial. I'm not so naive as to assume that the recording of my daily life is going to achieve an eventual sense of identity. </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">For a long time now I've been doing nothing, barely being a person, living in my sleep. Moving to a city is a sort of kick into a more competitive state of mind; "how can I get" a better deal, the better night out, the better life. This could be the surge of consumerism, (and) or the pressure of being a person who lives around people. Right now I am nothing around other people, and this needs to change. I desperately want to be something to somebody who is not myself. I want, perversely, your admiration.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">My identity is a sad leech attached to your foot, or your lips, your temple, your dick.</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/33962541-115756376234852791?l=courante.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Niamhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14828010555702070309noreply@blogger.com2