I went golfing today at a course I'd never played with friends I'd never played with before. It was painful to watch... and even more painful to experience. Without completely describing the catastrophe, my every drive went far right (as expected), and I was averaging well over one lost ball per hole. Stopped keeping score after the third hole; by then I was just saying "fuck it all" and wanting to get things over as quickly as possible.

I'm never going to actually write a novel, yet I continue to trick myself into thinking I will. Bits and pieces of various tales keep forming in my mind, and I have jotted some of those bits down. It's a shame. I think it's good stuff. Chalk it up to sheer laziness; school's out, I can't use that excuse anymore.

So it's been a morbid summer. People keep dying and shit. Maybe that's an insensitive way of putting it, but at this point, my mind is so blown by the coincidence of them all that it's just like... who's next? Steve McNair, former NFL quarterback, was found shot dead today. That's the fifth big name I've heard, though other would say this is number seven.

Is there anything inherently wrong with treating dA like a blog? I feel like there is, yet I keep on doing it.