I've posted this to the commentary (AKA "blog") area on MySpace, but I feel the need to post it here. It's not exactly enlightening, but it sheds some illumination on things for those who don't really know me. (I suspect there is exactly one of you that fits this category.)

As noted:

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As lonely as they were at times, I yearn for the simple moments that comprised the weekends of my first year at SHSU. I miss getting a ride home on Friday nights from my pops, shooting the shit, drinking RC, eating grocery store pizza, going to Half Price Books, watching the X-Files, hearing the AC thrum, sleeping on the couch or in the computer room. I miss that house, and in my mind, it has been, and will be, the setting of many a story. I dare say that I'd live there again, except that I know it wouldn't be the same. It's not 1997-2001 anymore, my brother and father no longer live there, and, as oddly attached to the suburbs as I am, I know I could never do the place the justice it deserves, locus of good memories that it is.

I still drive by it almost every time I visit Spring, though. While Spring is a cancerous place these days, nothing can ruin the places of my youth, save their complete destruction.

Viva Spring 1991-1994, and, more intermittently, 1997-2001. If it wasn't for Bridgestone and Bridgestone West, I would not be who I am.

Before I break down, I'm going to go watch the X-Files.

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Sometimes I miss being twelve, and other times I miss being eighteen or nineteen. Does everyone feel this way? I really think that I would derive considerable pleasure from once again spending weekends screwing around on a dial-up connection, reading, drinking coffee, and watching cable TV, all in the company of various family members, especially in the house at 19713 Westbridge.

If I ever get rich, I think I'll buy that house, and several other houses in the area.

I need to get out of this room and watch the X-Files. The urge to collapse in a heap of melancholy is overwhelming.