Stiff stuff

IF I WAS LOOKING at myself right at this moment, I would've laughed so hard as I watch a sweaty, non-bathed Me grappling for words to put in this first blog post, procrastinating as hell amid all the workload and chores I keep postponing.

I've just finished reading The Catcher In The Rye--finished it this time, unlike years back when I just read half of it and, hell yeah, kept postponing my reading the rest and never really got ahold of the book again, eventually losing it somewhere. For no reason, upon sighting the title in a bookstore recently, I bought another copy. Maybe that's the darn reason why I'm suddenly talking like Holden Caulfield, the book's madman anti-hero. Or writing like him, at least, right now. Boy. (Haha. you should grab your old copy if you have one and count the number of times that helluva character said "Boy" in almost every sentence. Kinda gets stuck on you, Holden Caulfield.)

Holden ended up in a psycho ward or something, in the story. The entire time I was reading, he exhausted me but amused me just the same. He thought too much and hated every single thing so badly it depresed him minute by minute. The mere thought of ducks or nuns or fish frozen in the lake aggravated him, for goodness' sakes.

Anyway, to quit boring you, finally, all I'm driving at is life gets too hard on people who think too much, like Holden. Like me. So I better quit it before I end up in some psychoanalyst's couch.

Hey, I'm not that mad, you know. Just enough to keep healthy sarcasm flowing and keep you less phony and corny. That kind of mad...maybe like you, I don't know. Maybe like you. (J.D. Salinger's writing is infectious, I know. Hehe.)

So much for promising myself I won't write a crazy blog for a first!

A few minutes from now, I'll be bathing my sweaty self and getting a headstart on curing procrastination. It's a disease. No kidding, it is.