Starting is hard

So, I don't know where to start, because there's so much I already have. I wish I knew things about websites. I wish I knew things in general. I wish that job would call me back. Starting is hard.

The other day, I found a bird. I'd just dragged my bike out of the basement, and the bird was just sitting there on the pavement, blinking at me. It looked odd. Like it wouldn't move, for some reason. So I set the bike on the kickstand and slowly got closer to the bird. Just a little, brown, sparrowlike thing... fluffy, like the wings were the only real feathers, and they seemed short. It's head shot around as my hand got close, whirling the thing, pointy beak around. But I was still convinced I could touch it. It just seemed like it wouldn't move. So I reached out and touched it's soft little back, and it flew off to some window sill on the other building.
So far, that's about the coolest thing I've seen in Brookline, even though that's not giving it fair credit, since I've hardly left the apartment. It was so cool. It must have been a baby, or dazed or something, to let me touch it.

I just want to be so awesome that birds eat out of my hand.

I've been here almost a month, but I never want to leave the apartment. Mostly it's just so EASY to stay IN the apartment. But here I am. Probably I'll post-date some other stuff from my journal.
My journal, by way of an introduction, is where everything goes. Rants, stream of consciousness, story starts. All the self-help-writing-books I've ever found say to do it that way. Don't worry about what you're saying, just say it. Don't worry about what parts are useful, or whether any of it is, until later.
It definitely feels so much better to do it that way. If I had to sit at a typewriter, type a line, hate it, crumple the paper and toss it in a corner, I would not write. I think some people are into cultivating that tortured-writer image of themselves, for whatever reason, but that's not me. I'm tortured by enough things that are my own fault.