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October 26, 2002
Whenever I think that I might at least be an adequate writer, or even have hope that I will be someday I read a few lines from the redneck manifesto or anything written by Bukowski and realize exactly how inadequate I am.

Fuck it.

I want to make a difference somehow, I just can’t figure out how. The need exists but the means may not. My talent in everything seems insufficient. Traveling and seeing the world may help, though I suspect the answer to this problem lies inside not out.

Someday I will find where I fit. Someday I hope.