Frothy

So I went to bed angry last night, something I hate to do since it means I won't actually go to sleep anytime soon. Not angry at someone, not even at myself, just angry in general.

I've been reading again. Dangerous thing that. Real books, ones with words and not the clever juxtoposition of words and pictures that I often peruse to amuse me and provide a moment of escapism.

History, sociology, books about things that I really should know, and that people in general should be aware of but aren't.

I've got a lot of reading to do it seems, lots of things I started looking into years ago but put aside because I couldn't make myself care enough to finish reading them. I just had no idea what the point would be, or what I would do with all the facts that would end up lodged in my brain if I did keep reading them.

This thing that I've started working on is going to have to be written while angry I think. It just won't get the mood and the bile and the hatred-of-the-way-things-are out right otherwise. It is also growing in scope a lot faster and a lot more then I would like, keep having to chop it back down to being a size I can get my head around.

More ideas with it then I know what to do with, some are at cross-purposes with each other and would pull the whole thing in radically different directions. If I can keep the whole thing as one 'whole thing' it could be really amazing. More so then the other things I've been working on since it is contemporary, heavily based in fact, and likely to piss off at some point damned near everyone who ever comes in contact with it, including myself.