An Attempt at Stream of Consciousness

It’s nice today. My nose is runny. I’m listening to music on an orange chair with the sun to my left. I’m trying to take this seriously. Experimental writing. I was told to write whatever I think to get to know myself. My computer is often too slow for my brain. That’s weird, because my brain is often too slow for most things. Didn’t sleep last night. I’m about to be on coffee number three. Caffeine induced lucidity. How can tonight promise great excitement if I’m too tired to notice? The fortune cookie promised. Lottery ticket stuck to the fridge with a stolen drum magnet. That’s exciting. If I win I’m taking writing lessons from Jack Black, or Jack White. The colour isn’t important, it’s the content that matters. If I win I’ll pay somebody to sleep for me. Then I won’t have to worry. Just tell me what I dreamt about. I hope it’s a fight between a dog and a monkey. Maybe I have flesh eating disease in my head. Could my brain be slowly eaten away by an unknown contagion? I am feeling a little light-headed. Maybe that’s just because my feet are so heavy. Why is the sun always up during the day? Doesn’t it know that’s when I do my best sleeping? If I win the lottery I’m giving the sun a day off. It deserves it, even though it is a little lazy in winter. Even the sun gets SAD. Maybe that’s why people always draw a happy face on it. I wish somebody would draw a happy face on me. Draw my eyes closed while you’re at it. And give my eyelids little motion lines so I’m in REM. If only life was as simple as drawing a cartoon of one’s self. I would go shopping on paper right now. I could use some chips. Fuck I’m boring. Is this really what’s in my head? I wish I could break it open and look. Strain out the brains and see what I’m really thinking. Stream of consciousness doesn’t make any sense.