I had a dream last night
I died and went to heaven.
But when I reached the pearley gates
They would not let me in,
Because I was missing a Hepatitus Vaccine.

and that's no good.

By the time anybody get's around to reading this, I will have reached my eighteenth birthday.

I don't mean to be a "downer," but I feel like I was born yesterday.

I've learned two things so far:
1. Life is short and meaningless.
2. I'm becoming more existential every eighteen years.

Right now I'm bathing in the afterglow of an event that has killed a small part of me. All of my work, all of what I've spent the last year or so doing, has been flushed down the toilet; not even a skidmark remains.

Every afternoon after tea, I head upstairs to the household pc and pop in my little purple friend. He's a portable Lexar (renamed "Sexar") Jumpdrive. His tiny 128 megabyte brain holds twenty to thirty Adobe Illustrator files, as well as around ten Photoshop files. Every time I insert him into my computer I am gratified by a synthesised chime, shortly followed by another, four pitches higher (i.e. do so) than the first. Today was different though, all I heard was the silence of a burned out microchip.

It's broken.

How could this have happened? I took such care of that device, always keeping it hidden away in the safest pocket, one suitable for China-white heroin to be kept in. But then again, the freedom of being able to store my work was just as good as heroin, and so far, coming down from it has been just as searing.