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anada306
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.* * \ /\
.* O . . .. ..O .. 306 09 Mar 2001 ) ( ')
.* O O* o o o o o o o ( / )
* ***O O O O O O O O O \( _)|
* O o o.*..o.*..o.*..o. .net "Writing Text Files Has *
* O Made Me Bipolar" *
*. o |\ _,,,---,,_ *
* /,`.-'`' -. ;-;;,_ *
* |,4- ) )-,_..;\ ( `'-' by Effy *
* '---''(_/--' `-'\_) *mE0w* o
*. .......................................*
'Anada is cat-friendly..o*`
So I was just sitting here, contemplating this and that with a cup of
high octane java at my side, when I noticed. The words on the cup spoke to
me, as if they meant something other than retail = $6.99 + 20% discount =
woo! I have a trademark coffee cup. And it taunts, oh yes it does, the
blatant words scrawled in comical balloonish freehand across the ceramic, or
glass, or whatever it is, call me a COMPUTER GEEK. I really need to write
more text files.
But what do I write about? If only I could control the jet stream of
the hovering storm of words that seems to collect around my head so often.
I've got SO much to say to you, but you're unlikely to be fascinated,
entertained, or even mildly interested by it. Perhaps that's where the
angst kicks in, the tried and true emotion, the only real BLOOD that runs
through the veins of an e'zine. Everything else is light, no matter how
many fancy words you squeeze in for flavor, it's still all Ready Whip in a
can, being sprayed in your face. Such a metaphor could persuade me to write
yet another unpublished text file about working in a coffee joint. Joint.
Let's avoid climbing the branch of angst today. Joint. There's a strong
gale at the top of the tree, and I don't wish to cause a bloody mess.
Joint. Wouldn't I like one right now? Too lazy to roll one. Then,
perhaps, I could write something !$#$!@!#@!silly!@#!@#!@! My humorous
fortes have been flattened to death. If someone handed me a fresh platter
of feces, I wouldn't know what to do with it. Silly Effy would make cynical
remarks; you see, that's her attitude these days, and she's simply not very
good at it. Silly Effy aint silly no more, unless she throws the pupu
platter back in the Chinese waiter's face, as she laughs madly, and slaps
other people's knees. Then nobody laughs, so she cries. And up comes angst
text file no. 45,679, sure to be a classic.
I feel like I'm slowly covering every inch of my writing field, like
a government controlled disease that has fallen into and out of my hands as
it hits the hard floor and begins to leak. I will be the first to die, but
the last one remembered. And I'll be remembered with hate. With spite,
with vengeance. And in the first person, with honor, finality, and FINALLY,
with INDIFFERENCE, because if I'm the only one who can see my GREATNESS, how
great am I really? I am merely a pompous vomit heap. How ridiculous that I
should possess ANY self-worth. And I couldn't believe that a POEM I wrote
in TEXT FILE FORMAT would ever be the cause of such narcissism. Maybe I
feel like Peter Steele did after he found out everyone thought he had a
third testicle. If I were male, that would be a more comfortable analogy,
because I hate to use the word "endowed" in reference to both of us, even if
they apply to completely different things. Though I imagine one of Peter
Steele's testicles to be more recognizable as a sack full of baby arachnids,
it is probably STILL bigger than my head alone. I don't mean to imply that
there is any other metaphorical correlation between Peter's goods and my
writing ability other than sheer size. And in HIS case, SIZE is not
necessarily good when you're brewing up the living dead. But SIZE + WRITING
ABILITY would naturally imply good writing.
But I must speculate more. I can write poetry that people will read;
that has been proven, unless I have a crazed, obsessed reader that has read
"Word Whore" hundreds of times. Anything is possible. There are several
people who email me incessantly, people whom I scarcely know, yet they seem
to think we're simply the best of friends, and I'm simply happy-go-lucky
about being NAGGED all the time. LET ME FERMENT IN MY BOTTLE OF ANGST, or I
could possibly become a HAPPY person, and then you won't be able to love me
so much anymore. Shit. Why am I still talking to you? I'm sick of writing
this. I quit.
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( o.o ) (c) Anada e'zine anada306 by Effy o
> ^ < o
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