Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 110 The bottom of a heel fell off of my shoe. Clip clop. Clip clop. Clip clop. All the way to my car. I can�t imagine any of this means anything in the long run, so I�m taking everything as a joke. When my boss comes to me tomorrow to tell me I�ve lost my job, I�ll laugh hysterically and keep not working. When my landlord sends me an eviction notice, and my electricity gets turned off, I�ll laugh and keep living. It�s hard to imagine any of this annoying me any more. Yet some how it does. Condescending doesn�t do anything but fuel my anger. Patronizing everyone does nothing but make you a mother. When do people get tired of hearing what you should do, what you could do, what you might do? I do not keep a neat diary. I do not wrap up my entries. I do not write things to be funny. I do not pride myself on lack of spelling errors, or perfect grammar. On the day I turn myself over, my identity becomes ruled by strangers, my appearance fabricated. Any picture would be stretched and cut, all you�ll have to go on will be a clip. What would feed my ego would be your desire to masturbate to my picture, and the lovely words I can misunderstand into something I can use. See also: Trick lighting. One string of thought. On impulse. If you tapped, it would sound hollow. It�s not depth you�re after. Everyone wants a reflection pool of self. A place to see how great they are, and I can�t tell if this is strung together with self doubt or a small ego. Worship scares the living fuck out of me, and maybe I�m alone in this. Manipulation makes me ill, and I�m not alone in these words, but everyone has done their share to get what they want. It�s all typos any way. I�ll just say my prayers I want to write I think, but my english teacher would say that�s implied, and therefore not necessary to write. I�m the only one who really doesn�t give a fuck enough to give everything up on the chance of nothing. Fuck you. Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck me. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Count the measures off in your head, I�ve never counted once I knew the song. I came in at always the right time, without fail. I stopped playing, and since that time my beat has been off. Beware redundance. Beware controversy. Beware privacy. I should be ashamed that my thoughts travel in circles, and that three days later I�m still listening to Goodnight Elisabeth. My sadness is just another victim of boredom. 6:55 p.m. - 2002-11-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||