January eighth, two thousand and twonDear diary, I write this in hopesnthat the universe will finally recieve me with open armsnOh opposition, how long will you continue?nOpposition, how many tears must you draw?nBut know this, not every tear that has graced my cheek has beennA tear of confrontation, but some have been tears of joynSo on this eighth day of the new year, 3:41 central time,nI stand confident, Oh my God of great goodness,nIs it possible just maybe, that I can write halfway intelligent lyricsnAnd make music that people might possibly like?nIs that possible?nIs it possible that what I do is what I want to actually do,nAnd not the result of selling out? hehnnOh hi little bluebird, you wonderful creation of JoynYou're beautiful. Sing to me, you sing to me bluebird,nYou sing beautiful. Now I'll sing to you...nReuben, what am I dippity doin?