I miss the X-Files in its glory days. I've already expunged my frustration with the most recent addition to Chris Carter's franchise enough so I won't worry anyone's patience with a review...
I feel like a huge firecracker who instead of igniting the instant my twisting fuse reaches me, I pause, contemplating whether or not to accept the flame only to pause too long and instead of exploding into a million glittering pieces, fall over on my side and groan a pathetic "Pfffssssssss" before being doused with cold water to prevent any further combustion. I've been told, by more than one person, that I am the epitome of contentment. I realizing now that if there is not some seed of malaise bubbling under my breast there is no hope for change, trivial or otherwise. I only moved to Dallas after a year of "contentment" in Abilene. I still wait tables, I job I don't really despise, but just happen to do. I don't need someone to light a fire under my ass. I need a scorching apocalyptic bonfire.
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