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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
And I just light myself on fire
And walk out on the wire once again

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


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