Starting is the hardest part of writing. Once you get past a couple sentences, you read what you've written and realize that you're going in a totally different direction than where you want to be. At these times, you recognize that most of the ideas you have are rubbish and start over. Either that, or you hit the publish button and forget about it.

I should have totally ended this entry with that paragraph. Before I do, though, here's a shameless plug for my 23rd birthday, which I really, really hope doesn't turn out to be blah, which I'm expecting it to. Everyone come to my imaginary birthday party, which I'm not organizing because I'm too lazy. At my fantasy imaginary party, there will be: a) lots of hot girls who are actually interested in listening to me ramble b) plenty of intoxicating substances c) nice presents of the 'shit I've wanted that for ages' variety, such as, I don't know, the latest arsenal jersey in my size, or a memory card for my dreamcast, or a tea pot, or something to hold large quantities of water (or tea) to put in my fridge, or a tape recorder for psych interviews ... the list goes on d) my friends, the msicreants that they are e) somewhere to dance f) actually that's about it. I'd ask for someone to hit on (or even better, someone to hit on me) but we have to content ourselves with what's possible. Ish.

Of course none of this is actually going to happen, but hey, as long as everyone I know sits back on my birthday and, for, like one second, thinks, 'man, I wish I was at Joel's imaginary 23rd birthday party. I bet it would be awesome,' that would be pretty cool. Imagine a cake while you're at it, too. Black Forest cake. With lots of cherries. Awesome.