Day
one hundred seven
February 17,
2013: I'm pretty sure, now that I think about it, already talked about time
flying by in a previous entry. Oy vey I'm hardly even a tenth through and I'm
already recycling old material. It is just so hard to be original in a world
where everything has basically been done. I've talked about work about a
gillion times as well. Why did I ever decide to do this? I have nothing significant
to write! By the time I'm done with this I will probably be writing single
sentence entries every day about the weather. When writing a story I'm as long
winded as Dickens, but ask me to write something interesting about my own life
and I begin to resemble a lobotomized chicken.
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