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July 22, 2001
Wakka wakka wakka. Coney Island.

Wakka wakka wakka.

Coney Island. What a creepy, weird, strange, fun place. I loved it. Going out to a festival with a big group of people, varying personalities. Endless entertainment. Got to ride the Cyclone, definitely going back for the batting cages, ride the Cyclone again, and see what the place is like when it's not teeming with thousands of people. It's like a cheap, dirty, state fair, but it's there all the time. I'm interested to see what it looks like in the winter. Perfect setting for a Scooby Doo episode. pssasbbbbytttt...

I'm hitting the point where I get frustrated. Every time I take up the writing regularly thing again, I do it and enjoy it for a few weeks, and then I hit a wall. Feel like I've got nothing to say, no insight. Just dumping. Brain vomit. Core Dump. Maybe I should start a new journal called Core Dump Refined. Or something. As always, my problem is my need for instant gratification. Also time. Never enough time. Then when there is time, I can't say I'm exactly using it exactly how I'd like.

Saturday night Trivial Pursuit is right up my alley. Cheap fun, good people. Beer and pizza.

Worked on the Portugal site for all of the afternoon and evening. It's good to do that, but it's not as good as some other things I'm avoiding. Writing, reading, cleaning my room. Clearing out the detritus. It's not spring, but this shit's got to go anyway.

It's time to stop fucking around.

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