Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?
trainspotting

whatever crisis i am going through, mental break-downs, panic attacks, anxiety attacks, self-loathing whatever it is, i need to get out of it. but i have decided that if i was ever to write a fictional novel loosely based off of my life it would all begin with my teeth. and how they don't shut completely. it's not like i have an overbite or an underbite, oh no they are slanted teeth that are too short to shut on their own. yes, then i would go into how difficult and awkward not being able to bite down with the front teeth. oh yes, then it would go into who had first presented this fact about my mouth and how i was completely unaware of my methods of eating until just then. that is when character development would start.
i suppose this novel would need a purpose, over-stimulation perhaps. the dynamics of a woman on the side of an egotistical philosophical wanna-be movement group.

sounds a little cliche but i've never been able to enjoy corn on the cob.