Catchin' up

I'm sorry, but I absolutely will not allow Brennon to post more blogs this month than me. I figure I can just post utterly random stuff and win this contest (that exists in my own head) pretty easily.

So the other week, I ordered this nifty little journal type thing to use a notebook at work, but it's all faux-leather bound and with some design on the front (I didn't see this when I ordered it), so I always see it and have the urge to write a journal entry. This is perhaps good for my writing motivation, but perhaps bad for the fact that I can't just bust it open and start scribbling away the way I would like to.

I'm very, very excited to watch Battlestar Galactica again tonight with Brennon. Once he finishes the mini-series I can start watching it again and not have to feel guilty. Whee!

Mayhap I'll take this moment to compose a little description scene of someone's bedroom:

The cheap, lightweight wooden door pushed into the room silently, gliding easily on its hinges. A small pile of abandoned shirts, boxers and socks lay randomly on a skewed pile in the center of the room adding a faint smell to the air that seemed to suggest against closer inspection. The hardwood floor gleamed dully, its once presumably brilliant polish obscured by tangled clumps of dust and hair, out of which dangled miscellaneous appendages of nail clippings, string and paper. This mismatched collection of debris lay scattered, divided by piles of books, cd cases and occasionally furniture. Several bookshelves, inexpertly created out of boxes and rough, splintery plywood held an eclectic collection of books spanning most genres with a heavier emphasis on self-help and books on the supernatural. A few discarded glasses containing various amounts of water stood in a small clump next to the bed, as though a rather inefficient way of stopping a leak which did not exist. The bed itself hardly deserved the name, being as it was an egg crate lying on the floor with a stained sheet on top.

Along the edges of the room, paint chips littered the floor, presumably fallen from the peeling walls. Several water stains crept down the walls, dotted with the holes of years' worth of tenants putting up pictures and posters to make the living space a bit less dingy. Its current resident had no such frivolous additions, instead allowing the room to speak for itself in the low, muttering voice of poverty. In the dirty bed lay a large man, facedown, his long and stringy black hair spread around him like a diseased corona. His naked body was fairly covered in a light film of dirt and grease, intermittently streaked down his back and sides with lines of where his sweat hat done its best to clean him--and failed. His pale skin still held a fading memory of the flush of life within it, but his body lay utterly motionless except for the occasional scutter of a potato bug across his back, each time trailing a drop of two of blood from where its mandibles had consumed part of the newly made corpse.

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I wish I could write faster. Boourns.