What is this, I don't even. . .

I have just given up for today.

I don't remember what I wanted to write or whatever ideas I had. It's all gone.

All of it.

I spent all day at work, and by the time I got home, my brain had turned into that of a small child's. seriously, did I need grapes? No. But I bought them anyway.

People like grapes. http://youtu.be/S1QRxumbmtM

I don't even know what to do for the rest of the night. . . 

Oh! an interesting thing happened. . .

I was asked by one of my coworkers if I smoke, and by that, they didn't mean cigarettes.

I laughed at this for a few reasons. Mostly, because, to me, I felt like they were trying to find a cause for my weirdness. (That, or they were offering me to join them doing so. I, of course, declined). 

I am weird because a I am, also because I am an artist, and we have to be weird by nature. 

When you see me before you, behold, for I am pure, unadulterated insanity. 

Who was is that said "I don't do drugs, I AM drugs," Salvador Dali? I feel that fits this just nicely.

Someday all go into my rant about how I feel about most substances and their various uses, but for now, there is a moosie demanding my attention.

"Are you finished typing yet moussier?"