I am not quite sure why i began this... Most obviously it was an inspirational thing, seeing my friends have such litarary insights right before my eyes. maybe it is because my maid absolutly hates to keep all the hundreds of sheets of paper i have used to "spill my heart out". i have to admit that in attempts of having such a literary insight i have bought more notebooks than my sad allowance could afford, i have resuscitated my fathers old typewriter only to find it much harder to use than a simple computer, i have even appealed to napkins in random restaurants when i was caught in a wave of boredom... maybe eletronically i may succeed. most probably, i wont do anything worth reading. but in between the typo's and run on sentances and terrible choice of pictures i have decided to put i might in some way do the "spilling of the heart" i so desperatly attempt to do.
if you are at home reading this i can only beg you to leave, and entertain yourself with the works that have once compelled me, please grab a decent novel, a cup of coffee and find yourself a comfortable chair; i personally would recomend a nice Louisa May Alcott, she always helps my boredom, maybe a Fitzgerald to make you envy the 20's or even some silly old book that makes you feel that nice feeling only a good book gives you.
Ok, i have just notices the accuracy of the websites name, i have already begun the psychotic rambling i am so usually caught up in, but i refuse to erase it. some day maybe when i am famous, and a world known author of some sort people might read this and compare it to the days when Einstein failed phisics or bethoven was kicked of music school.. or maybe, some random zé is reading it right now and realising how foolish i am for comparing myself to such people.
This is all i have to say for now, i guess..
bisous