So, a new blog is it?

Yet another new blog. The back edge of the tidal wave of blogdom. That's what I'm all about. To resistant to new things, yet fully accepting of things only after they've become passe. Used up. Drawn out. Tired.

Who am I? A mystery. An enigma. Possibly a machine.
None of the above. I'm really very simple. I am just another human being in the horde. Masquerading as an original person merely by having very obscure sources. The bibliography of my life is three tiers deep.

Why the "Texas Cheesesteak Massacre"? Well, frankly. I made this the day after Valintine's Day at 2 in the morning after drinking a bit (I'm single, on a day for couples, can you blame me?). It sounded cool. It doesn't mean anything. At least not to my concious mind. Maybe later on another layer of the onion of my soul will be peeled back to reveal deep hidden meanings. But I doubt it.

Nobody knows about this blog. But I like leaving hints. Like an inventory based adventure game sort of. With exagerated hints. Only instead of exagerated, I've decided to hide it a bit.
For instance. Maybe you did some odd google search based on something I said. Or something I posted on my silly LiveJournal. There are no thoughts there, only the meanderings of madmen and geniuses.

Paragraphs that have fully developped ideas are for people with fully developped ideas. With a mind going a mile a minute, it is hard to keep up with these clacking away fingers dancing on the keys.

Kharnican. I don't know where it came from. It has roots in the Chaos gods of the Warhammer 40,000 universe. I don't know, I just started using it one day. It just sort of came to me. Probably just another way for people to find me since I use it quite a bit. Like a pathetic cry for help. I'll make the path easy, but I constantly want people to take the first step. Reach out a hand. Whatever. I may not take the hand and often I have thrust it away. But the fact that someone bothered to reach... That gives me a warm feeling. I start to care again. But I'd just like to state for the record that I've always thought of myself as a good guy. I wonder... When did people start associating me with evil? I know far eviller people than me. I know a few that are WAY more evil than me, yet more socially accepted. I'd blame society, but sadly I know where the blame truely lies, right here, on my shoulders. It is mine to carry because I did it to myself. I have nobody else to blame.

It is not the darkest right before the dawn. Just before dawn it can be quite bright out depending on atmospheric conditions. Sadly it is still plenty dark around here. Where did all the light go anyway.

Now, for a final statement on Valintine's Day... I know so many people say this holiday means nothing. That they hate it. Or it is stupid.
But frankly? It IS important. It is a holiday for the people in love. And they may all do the same sappy things that everyone else does. But the that doesn't dimish the fact that people have done sappy things for years just because, well, it works. The sappiness I mean. I mean, jeeze, the thing is, even girls may go "Oh that's so sappy," at that sort of stuff in romantic (-comedies) but the thing is, they keep watching them just because they love that sort of thing.

Too imature for love. To cynical to be loved.

I wonder if this will become a daily blog or just another abandonned project of mine started up a fit of... something. Definitely a fit though. Probably depression. There are such artifacts strewn around the interweb. Not important enough for me to remember they even exist.

The best part about having a terrible memory:
The bad parts of life are eventually forgotten.

The worst part:
The good parts go away a lot faster than the bad parts.

I mean, the closest thing I ever felt to love was mid to late summer of the year of our lord, two thousand and four. I can barely call her face to mind. At the time, it crystalized in my mind and was there forever. Now, it has faded out... The features dimmed and faded. I could still pick her out of a crowd (given I was close enough to see her, curse my vision), but I cannot call her face to the crystal clear memory.

All that is left is my feelings. Hate, jealousy and sadness.

Maybe one day I'll forget her entirely. Let young love go forever. Like it had never been. Or closed off behind so many doors that dust coats it so thoroughly so as to completely obscure it. Maybe that will be a good thing. I doubt it though. I hold on to my pain. Keep my emotional wounds fresh and stinging. They remind me I'm alive. The details may get washed out, but the shape will remain.

I've been typing for half an hour. A stream of conciousness. I guess this isn't going to be a daily-events blog sort of thing. Maybe it'll turn into that if I ever have an interesting life.