A freeform masturbation of words onto the page - I highly suggest ignoring this post

I am not naturally inclined to form thoughts into whole treatises and essays. Thus I keep writing first sentences into this artificially constructed space and then finding my mind blank or far too full to organize and chop up into some convenient and trite piece for the entertainment of those who may occasionally dip in here or simply to allow me to digest my ideas and come out with simplistic solutions or conclusions that might be used to direct my future actions. The same goes with comments on other people's blogs. If I read you, chances are that I've started to write a response to your posts several times, seen the very first line of it and decided that I come off as a smirking, stupid, obnoxious, uninformed, grade A idiot and decided against posting at all. I wonder if it is possible to conceive an artistic lament for all the comments lost by a blogger's unwillingness to appear stupid, or in any other negative light. Yes, I really am that shallow. On the other hand, it does point to a deeper problem. When asked what it is exactly I write, I'm often forced to reply, "fragments." I've not the discipline to distill my informal writings into finished pieces. Being a sheep, as most people are, I am of course able to complete assignments in classes and hand in work assignments, albeit with extreme difficulty, and some of these are indeed very good. If I were able to push to completion anything I did outside of a class or work, perhaps that stuff would be very good too. Thus far, it has been impossible to tell. One way to remedy this of course is to take classes in the stuff I'm interested in writing, thus giving my structure and deadline demanding brain artificial constraints that my excellent conditioning in high school would prevent me from ignoring. I succesfully did that with photography last year, finally taking a class which allowed me to test empirically any talent or potential I might have in that field. Talent has not in fact been confirmed, but I was sufficiently intrigued that I intend to try out an advanced class before concluding in the negative. Unfortunately, classes are expensive and time limited, thus it is unlikely that I can take a class in every single thing it is that I wish to explore. This then leaves me back in the position of the dreamer, attempting to become a doer. I've begun the process of dissociating myself with indecisive characters in novels and movies, my frustration with their inability to act overcoming my basic identification with their general neuroses or fears. I've no intention of dying Hamlet. Right now I'm reading Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man and I find myself constantly frustrated with the protagonist's unquestioning and unwillingness to think around corners. He reminds me a lot of Edward Norton's character in American History X, too willing to accept each new dogma that comes his way without engaging his critical faculties. I find myself frequently yelling, internally (mostly) at a fictional character and worrying that he, like Norton, will not begin to think until he has been forced to pay some extremely high tolls for his slackness on the highway of life. I may have been accused of gullibility in the past, but this at least, I've never been accused of not asking questions or coming to my own conclusions about the shape and color of the world. I may conclude that earth is a cuboid and the sky pink and purple, but at least those would be conclusions of my own reason.

Okay, I am done with that now. But having mentioned pink, I would like to point out that I recently purchased one a Western (cowboy) style shirt covered in flowers and done in two shades of pink and that contrary to what you might imagine, this shirt does not make me look like a raging homosexual. I think I will wear it when I celebrate yet another year of my (thus far) pointless existence on this geoid. If someone takes a decent picture, I will post it. That is all. Good night.