It is time to update my blog. I have something I really want to write about, but I don't have enough time. I probably would need a few hours, and it would be worth it, but I only have 30 minutes, so I can talk about nothing, which is what I was going to talk about anyways.

Hey look, that last paragraph sucked, but I don't have time to edit it. But enough bickering, I've got to start pretending like I'm going somewhere. Though it's not like my readers will care. Collectively they will probably appreciate this entry just as much as any other entry. Actually, this is nice in a way: I'm not influenced in any major way by my audience on what I write here, just that I write. A good reference to Dominique Francon could go here, if I figure out how to fit it in, though it only really applies in the converse to my situation, as a contrast, because her dilemma was of course trumped by her blossoming love affair with Howard Roark.

I don't fall in love with real people anymore, though I fell in love two nights ago in a dream. We met in a restaurant, and the only table I was aware of was one in the middle. Her name was Kenny, and I remember distinctly that her name had five letters, was not Kenney, because Kenny splits the syllables up into pieces of 3 and 2 letters, which are consecutive fibonacci numbers, have a ratio close to golden. I do not know why her name was Kenny, though there must have been some reason. I do not know of any Kenny's. The closest is Jason Kenney, who last week was a Conservative MP. However, he is immature, and even looks immature, with the kind of face the stereotypical grandmother squeezes. Though I have never met such a grandmother, and besides, he is a man. Afterwards, she and James Hogan were flirting, and I got jealous, but later we were alone on a bus, which was travelling downhill, so I felt very high up. And I said, "I really like you", and then I think I woke up and tried to remember why I felt so good.