::+Post It Note For The Digital Diaries+::
Three hours and thirty minutes from now my extremely annoying cell phone alarm will go off!
Today is his first day, and I am excited for him. Excited enough to want to wake up after a three hour and thirty minute snooze just to hit the call button and wake his ass up!
A mish mosh of our careers, education, talent, passion, drive, and reason make up an awesome way to live.
First, Universal Studios. Next, the Universe! bwuahahah!
This day is worth the memo.
I thank God for feeding us.
Go Fish
It is 11:49AM on a Sunday. I had breakfast that I know I didn’t deserve. There’s no way I deserved the pleasure of eating breakfast that I didn’t enjoy. There are so many out there who deserve that meal more than I did. My day hasn’t even begun and I’ve already found myself wanting to pull my hair out of my scalp. That’s a metaphor of course.
Writing is supposed to be peaceful or even lonely. Sometimes your only audience is yourself. If 
you’re lucky enough it’s a guy named Ben.
I am a writer.
I am a writer who is caught up in the mainstream. This mainstream is not like a fucking fish net, and this caught up, is not like being trapped in it. I’m talking Dynamite Fishing. A fucking mainstream trap that causes explosions killing everything and fucking up anything it hits.
People who write for money over their very own passion are dead fishes caught in the mainstream that is the dynamite and are caught easy because they swim shallow waters in a school.
Shallow minds think alike, just as Great minds do.
Now, as grandiose as it sounds, I will go ahead and call myself a lone big blue whale. Not to say that I am better than anyone else, but I say, whoever is aware enough to notice this sad metaphor of mainstreams could go ahead and self proclaim their own powerful fish, or in my case, mammal. =P
“yippie kay ay mutha fucka”
*No offense to the many wonderful schools of fishies that color the big blue
In a Dream
ONE DROP OF SWEAT trickles down my brown skin, instantly evaporating as it SILENTLY touches the ground.
That was the last of my fluids, and I‘m thirsty.
I reach into my pockets and pull them inside out. Crumbs spill. I watched as the birds flocked to what was left of my bread. I’m hungry.
I close my eyes and like hot coal my eye lids burn. A salty tear falls out of my left eye, and touches my cracked lips. I was wrong, that was the last of my fluids. I am thirsty.
I am dreaming…
And all I have to do is wake up…
How does one wake the self?
Come Together
After a long period of ideas that seem like puzzle pieces towards an approximately one hour and thirty minute long story… I’ve found an important piece.
turns out inspiration hits in the shower if not after 12am.
CioPau's Symphony on synthetic paper 