I am afraid this post will be a long and vague one, and about as diary-like (OMG!!! SQUEEEEE DAVID TENNANT!!! ) as my mind-splurges ever get. I will by turns be unashamedly brazen and arrogant, puffing off my self-worth by proclaiming it to the Internets, and whip-lashingly sensitive and vulnerable. Oh, joy. If this prospect fills you with terror (as it should), run away. Now.
My delicate emotional state is best summarized by a storm in a teacup. I don't even know what this expression means (at least, not yet. The Google will be hearing from me shortly), but the image thereby conjured up best summarizes the fluctuating fireworks show of electrical nerve impulses that plague the synapses of my centralized ganglia.
I am right on the borderline between whooping and hollering for joy and screaming and b!tching at everyone I meet. And to those who think that this averages out into general ambivalence or pessimistic apathy, you are wrong. It means, with the simultaneity paradox characteristic of the non-serial nature of human emotional definitions, that I am feeling both at the same time, and the resulting tension of conflicting streams of emotion is creating a feedback loop which forces me to think over the various things that have happened to me this week thereby intensifying the various emotional states which aforementioned events eventuated in me, thereby increasing the strength of the emotional feedback loop.
In order to eradicate any personal bias, and to preserve the impartiality necessary to psychoanalyze myself, it must be noted that my happiness level just increased infinitesimally when I wrote down that last sentence.
I can't do anything about it now, of course, because I am at work. But something, somewhere very far away, is exploding. The probability of an explosion of any type occurring in a given location is rare, but sum up the probability of an explosion happening ever, and you get a lot of things exploding. Broaden the given definition of now from the smallest possible division of time (planck-second) to something in human range...say, give or take two minutes before/after making this statement, so then whether by alien machinations, or the products of human technological development, it is almost certain that something somewhere is exploding, perhaps by unlikely spontaneous combustion or someone is doing fireworks, lighting gasoline, or, what is a lot more likely, the Mythbusters are blowing up a car...again . Filtering out the issue of determining simultaneity in order to determine now-ness (thus mentally achieving the impossible by putting a star on it and ignoring it), my argument holds water like a blob of orange juice in space sucked out through a straw! Don't fail me, probability. So it is technically true that though I am at work and can't do anything, something somewhere is probably exploding. Well, I never said they had to be related events, did I? Correlation does not imply causation, so if you see me standing looking innocent by a ball of fire and ash that smells like kerosene, and I am quickly shoving matches into my pocket, this means you can't prove anything. 
So. The reasons for this ridiculous rambling (and, I think, utterly awesome awesomeness):
- Rdio, I am utterly and completely in love with you. And even though I am still on my free trial period, I think it is just so great how I can listen to almost anything I want over the Internets for just $10 a month without having to decide whether to commit to buying an album that I might not like. Now I need have no compunctions about going ahead and listening to that interesting-sounding group who sounds similar to another group. I knew from the moment I met you that we had something special. You had me at "offline mobile syncing."
- I got an internship. This is good. I will lose a large chunk of free time, and the ability to sleep in however late I want. This is a travesty. But the pay makes it just a little bit more worthwhile. Oh, and the job experience. :-D
- I am concerned that I will no longer be able to keep up with my musical instrument practice and writing. Le Sigh.
I haven't written for a while. I know I didn't do so yesterday. So to round off today's entry, here is a short mini-excerpt. (Again, DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fanfiction written purely for amusement. I am not making any money on this. Copyright on all Harry Potter characters (except Denga and Bode Righteous) and the world, etc. belongs to J.K. Rowling. Thanks for letting me borrow them, J.K.R., they're a barrel of laughs!)
Hedwig rolled her eyes. She recognized that dopey look. It meant that Harry was going to ask her something embarrassing.
“Go ahead,” she said, wearily, and muttered under her breath. You whiny little twerp. If you didn’t have the unlikely gift of preparing candied baby mice exactly as I like them, with cotton candy chocolate sprinkles studded in their soft little tiny pink eyes, I’d ditch your worthless carcass faster than Severus Snape confronted with a bubble bath.
Harry’s head swam. Hedwig’s voice was fading into her usual toots and whoos.
“Hedwig,” said Harry, carefully, albeit a bit thickly, for even with his senses disordered, a small part of him that remained sane (namely, his sense of self-preservation) told him to tread warily. “Hedwig…you’re a girl. Why do you sound like a man? Like…Professor Snape would sound while confessing his undying love for Professor Umbridge?”
“Remember,” said Hedwig, “I am merely (too whoo!) An extension of your subconscious, (hoot hoot hoot) made temporarily real under the influence of firewhiskey. (Whirrrrr) I sound like whatever you (whoo hoo whoo hoo) want me to sound like.” You sick bastard. Snape, indeed. Couldn’t your warped mentality have fixated on Julia Roberts instead? Whoo hoo.
“’Snice,” said Harry, and passed out, his head landing on a carpet that, had he been aware of it, now had the exact same pattern as Professor Minerva McGonagall’s tartan dressing gown.
 David Tennant: The ONLY actor/famous person who is capable of eliciting such an over-the-top crazed fangirl-like response from me because he is just that awesome. With that statement, the famous-person-worshipping obsessive type of hormone-splurge obligatory to all "diary entries" is over for this post.
 Or, uhh...exploding frogs. Even more bizarrely, fruit.
 That was a joke, Internets. I am not going to blow anything up.