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// "Gruel and Chutney Surprise" \\
(( 02/11/03 anada525 ))
\) (/
Nothing is better than a little irregularity in one's life. Once a
routine is established, it becomes work. Wake up, step one; exit bed, step
two; take a piss, step three; feed cats, step four. This could use a little
bit of excitement. Perhaps tomorrow, I'll skip step one altogether and see
where that gets me.
--gloomchen
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
TABLE OF CONTENTS
"Stupid Fucking Rain" by E.J. .......................................line 41
"Valentine" by PrincessKarebear .....................................line 71
"Shuffled" by Gangsta Spanksta .....................................line 274
"There Is No Equinox" by Infernal ..................................line 317
"That's What Dreams Are Made Of" by Gloomchen ......................line 527
"Live Journals Are To Journals..." by Fabius Bile ..................line 573
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Stupid Fucking Rain"
by E.J. - ejdavis@earthlink.net
It's true that I do believe that it'd be utter revelation to make
love to you.
When the soul pulses musically into conscious patterns so veiled that
it could only be fate between us. The eyes lock into each other's with an
accompaniment so true that heart flatlines into something obscure and true.
And my lovebeats with yours and I no I can do no harm for you, to youÖ
Slender golden locks and a prettiness flaxen to me and somehow
contrast with your weatherworn face, a forgotten Grecian goddess lays within
whose locks and wine of Dionysos leave me pondering the lives of poets lain
in Grecian urns never bethought of and contain the poems of those less
inclined to speak
Your lips that I know I can kiss should I be inclined to be, the lay
or lament of only the guilty I will possess, if it is too gorgeous to
contain. I love, and think of the storm contained in too few hearts, and
that only few befit even the idea of watching, romancing the storms from
their bedroom widows
“Hey, it's better than being rained on!” she saidÖ
Stupid fucking rain
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Valentine"
by PrincessKarebear - princesskarebear@hotmail.com
Valentine's Day. The one day in 365 that is designated for love.
What do I have to say about it? Fuck love. No seriously, FUCK LOVE!!!
Screw Valentine's Day and anyone else who needs an excuse to be love-y. My
reasoning behind this bitterness? Let me explain.
****Travis****
Travis was a hottie. He was the tallest, cutest, smartest boy in my
fourth grade class. He was dark complected and he wore glasses. This was a
combination that drove me absolutely crazy. Valentine's Day was around the
corner and all of my little girl friends had their cute little boyfriends
and everything was merry. Kelly was getting a huge chocolate kiss from
Matt. Melissa was getting a box of nasty Pamida candy from Dirk and Christi
was the luckiest girl of them all, she was getting a rose from Randy.
We all knew this because nothing is sacred in fourth grade. I really
wanted Travis to be my boyfriend. I didn't really even care about him the
rest of the time; I just wanted a boyfriend over Valentine's Day. So V-day
rolls around, and I find Travis the most awesome cardboard pop out Valentine
in the box. I had gotten the expensive book-order Valentine's that year, so
I decided to give Travis the one with the cool pop out frog. I scribbled
the FROM: KARA on his Valentine, like I had for all of the other kids,
except on the back I wrote: TRAVIS I THINK YOU ARE REAL CUTE WILL YOU GO OUT
WITH ME? Then I decorated his envelope with lots of little hearts. My mom
was sorting threw my Valentine's to figure out whether I had tried to
by-pass the smelly kid again, when she saw Travis's Valentine. “He must be
special,” she said and I just blushed.
The next afternoon we were sitting around rooting through our
DarkWing Duck and Loony Toons Valentines when Travis read mine. Travis was
the fourth grade diplomat. He had to do something with a certain degree of
class, so he read it and said “No thank you.” Then he gave it to Mrs.
Barber to read. She smiled and gave it back to him. Travis walked over to
the recycling bin and politely ripped the Valentine in two and threw it
away.
********
That is only the beginning. The very tip of the iceberg as to why
Valentine's Day is a crock. Not all of my Valentine's Day's have sucked
though. My best one to date was in 6th grade which is really sad.
****Donnie****
Donnie and I were meant to be. It was in the stars or something. We
were the hottest couple on Windriver Drive from second grade to fourth
grade, and then his uncle Jody caught us kissing in the garage and that was
the end of that. But you know what they say, sometimes you can' t make that
old flame quit burning, so Donnie and I started seeing each other again
secretly when I was in 6th grade.
It was really kind of odd and awkward because we were in different
schools. I had to have my sister smuggle notes back and forth between us.
I would pour my heart out in these letters to him on my special “teenager”
stationary. He was the world to me, and it killed me that I would only get
to see him every once in a while. I guess the fact that I had to be cool
and not walk the 2 blocks up to his house set a real boundary between us.
Anyway, there was a 5th grade choir concert and it was “Ode to
Disney” or something like that, and I knew that Donnie would be singing the
solo in the Lion King song. That would be our big chance to swap our
Valentine's and such. I had splurged and gotten him a Janet Jackson tape
with our song on it, and I framed one of the glamour shots that I had taken
that December. I picked out the one that I looked cutest in, but my mom
begged me not to give it to him.
I brought all of these fun little things in a bag with a big red
heart on it to the choir concert. I stood in that notorious hall way at DHS
where many a children have stood before choir productions trying to bounce
around so they don't pass out from excitement. I caught Donnie in his
entire Lion King garb and gave him that flaming gay bag in exchange for a
crudely wrapped box. It was obvious that the box was the infamous Pamida
candy.
I was happy though, because there was a cologne-y scented letter
shoved into the top of the box written on a post-it note. I was happy
because after all of the months of spilling my heart all over in the letters
I sent him, I had finally received a two-paragraph reply. I read the
post-it every night, until my 12th birthday a month later when Donnie called
and broke up with me.
I tried not to read and smell the letter every night before I cried
because I didn't have a boyfriend and all of my other friends did, but I
just couldn't help it. I still catch myself tearing up a little whenever I
hear that damn Janet Jackson songÖÖÖÖ
********
Okay, that is kinda sad that my happy Valentine's Day just made me
want to go and hang myself. This next tale of unrequited love is pretty
friggin' hilarious now, but it wasn't very funny when it happened.
****Jamie****
Jamie was my everything. Jamie was Donnie 100-fold. Jamie was the
missing piece of my head. I still agree to most of these things. Jamie was
a prick who dumped me a week before Valentine's Day. Yeah it was a shitty
thing to do, but the REALLY big, nasty part of this is that is was in 7th
grade the week before the big dance, and I had been deathly ill all of that
week.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking “Jamie you are cock-
smoke!” but wait, there is more. Jamie and I are broken up for a good
couple of days, when he asks Jeska to the big V-Day dance. Only Jeska
wasn't Jeska yet, she was just still plain old “Jessica.” I admit this
sucked. I wanted to go and rip her hair out. But with me trying to hold in
all of these really putrid feelings I was feeling, just walked up to her and
started pointing out all of his flaws.
She could see a few of the little things that I had picked out about
him, but for the most part, the bitch was rigid. They were going to the
dance, and I was going stag and there was nothing I could do about it. A
couple of days after moping about Jeska, I hear threw the grapevine that
Jamie is dating some mystery woman but no one could tell me whoÖ..
Everyone thought they were doing me some wonderful favor by not
telling me of whom this secret lady was when it finally came out that it was
Krista. Looking back, I wish I could have seen the future so I could have
hated Krista in advance for running a stop sign and wrecking my first car
and causing me to spend most of my free time in the hospital my senior year
of high school. Krista and I had been best friends in grade school, and she
was the giggly-est, dumbest girl in the whole world, and now she was all
Jamie's. MY Jamie's! This was too much. On top of all of this, Jeska and
I were starting to build up a sort of anti-Jamie alliance, except whenever
he was around the only thing she said was “No really I'm not mad.” It
sucked.
The big day finally rolls around. Jamie struts into the 7th grade
hallway walking a little taller than usual. Well, this is very un-Jamie so
in no time he has drawn a crowd. He pranced right up to Krista, threw an
arm around her and gave her a plastic shrouded red rose. Everybody went on
and on about how romantic he was and by lunch the story had evolved into
“Jamie gave Krista a dozen roses and he is giving her one more after ever
class.”
I was bitter and just snorted about this, and acted really pissy.
Right after lunch, I walk into my 5th hour English class and Krista has her
perky, stuck-up ass in the chair acrossed from me. I don't know what is
going on, all I know is that I hope this girl is coming over to tell me that
she just found out she has crabs or something. Krista looks at me for a
second then says, “You went out with Jamie right?”
I look at her for a secondÖÖ
“Yeah why?”
“How did you break up with him?”
“I didn't.” Could this be it??
Could it really be??? Am I this lucky???
“Oh my God! You guys are still going out???!!!!”
“Uhhhh no Krista, he broke up with me.”
“Oh but you know him pretty well right?”
SHE IS REALLY GOING TO SAY IT!!!
“Yeah Krista, why?”
“Because I need to break up with him.”
YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!!!
“Today?”
“Yeah I think so.”
With this tiny fragment of knowledge, for the rest of the day I could
smile a little when I talked. Jamie is going to get dumped!
HAHAHAHAAAAA!!!!!! After school that I had to have some more blood work
done to figure out what was making me so sick earlier that month. I go home
and then my mom takes me straight to the hospital, they draw my blood and
tell me that its all just probably swollen glands but they are taking more
blood just to be sure. I am ecstatic that I am not dying and that Jamie is
getting dumped that I show up at the dance with a smile on my face.
I walk in with my full smirk on and I see Jamie and Krista dancing
all slow and love-y and WHERE THE HELL WAS HIS HAND!!!!! My good mood was
ruined. On the way out of the dance, I see Erin, the resident angel. She
stopped me and asked, “What did the doctor say? Are you okay? Where are
you going?”
I told her, “I'm going to be okay if anyone asks, except Jamie and
Krista and tell them I'm going to fucking die.” That's a direct quote.
Then I stomped out of the school and to my house where I watched Heathers
and felt sorry for myself. Now everybody say it in unison, JAMIE YOU ARE
COCK-SMOKE!!!!!
********
Jamie. What a cock-smoke. Too bad I married him. I haven't brought
up the whole “Valentine's Day of 1997” story in a really long time though
maybe I should, just to see if he remembers it as festively as I doÖÖ..
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Shuffled"
by Gangsta Spanksta - jms3117@tank.dreamhost.com
I really wish I knew who I was or what I was.
I suppose it really doesn't matter.
My life is all but wasted.
I'm alone.
Cold.
The sweat runs down my forehead.
I breath but it's all a waste.
Straight ahead, there is that light.
That annoying light.
That light that offers much promise.
But the promise is a lie.
A carrot on a stick for fools like me.
I rather be in that darkness behind me.
I wasted my life there.
But at least it never lied to me.
Or offered me things I could not keep.
But going back is a waste.
I rather just sit here.
Freeze here.
Just lay down between the nothingness and all.
And then just forget.
Forget for a long time.
Forget for all time.
But still I think.
Thoughts.
Hopes.
Oh what useless dribble.
Won't make a diffrence in the world.
Just proof of my worthless existence.
A constant reminder of a bad card being played.
Of being played.
A worthless hand that Fate threw back on the pile.
She missed and forgot and went on to play better games.
Much more interesting games.
Much more meaningful games.
Can't say I really blame her.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"There Is No Equinox"
by Infernal - infernal@anada.net
1.
There is a cafeteria, loud and stark, windows steamed and lights
garish and buzzing. Tables are dirty, some stacked with plates, several
littered with old food, empty Coke cans, milk cartons, cigarette packs.
Fifteen, perhaps twenty people are scattered throughout the room, some
reading thick chemistry textbooks or Cosmo's 21 Ways To Make Your Man Want
To Please YOU!, some just idly chewing and staring into the institutional
eggshell white of the walls. The aisles between the tables are mud-streaked
and dotted with clumps of dirty snowmelt, straw wrappers and the occasional
crumpled napkin trapped sodden and forlorn in the puddles.
In the front of the room, where the food is served, a huge woman with
a mournful face wipes down bright orange serving trays with a tattered green
rag. She seems made of large, quivering, lumpy blocks - huge arms, giant
nondescript swells for breasts and belly and ass, trunk legs, a stone idol
of a head. Pinned to one impassive breast mound is a tiny green wreath made
of plastic beads, with a scrap of red ribbon looped to the top. The wreath
tosses like a life preserver as she wipes and stacks the trays.
A tiny foreign student approaches and tries to ask her something, and
she turns her back on him in mid-sentence - actually just turns away from
him - leaving him blushing, mouth open, all those struggling new words stuck
like dirty diamonds compressed with effort and now unable to be seen. He
looks at her back for a long second, astonished, maybe chalking up a new low
for his ambivalent new home, and then he goes away.
Close your eyes and
2.
There is a bus, humming with the susurration of whirring wheels and
climate control. It is a dark, hothouse kind of warm, blooming with
mingled, brooding, steamy scents of food, sweat, dirty clothes, flatulence
and stale old coffee. One or two reading lights are on, slices of bright
and a silhouetted head, lips murmuring over this paper or that tract. Most
of the sold-out crowd is just sleeping, though, accidentally leaning on
strangers' shoulders, or with heads mashed onto wadded-up jackets for
pillows and pressed against the cool, smudgy slabs of window. Each time the
bus hits a bump, a jolt rattles these sleeping heads, and there is a murmur
as sleeptalkers blink, get their bearings, sip from bottles of water, and
peer into the gloom.
One young man is sound asleep with headphones still perched on his
head, one earpiece sliding across his cheek a little with each toss and turn
and bump. A tinny fly buzz can be heard from it, an occasional word or drum
beat like a dispatch from Lilliput. At the front of the bus, the driver
occasionally hums a carol to himself in a deep, comforting bass tone,
running a hand over his tired face as he squints, fidgets, thinks of dawn
and food and the end of his shift, in a glittering city hours away, one
which is impossible to believe in at the darkest hour of night when you're
the only thing that moves on a moonlit stretch of wind-blown interstate
cleaving two halves of nowhere. For the driver, who can't sleep through
this part, there is no destination until the bus noses over a hill and into
the manmade light again, back onto a planet of schedules and agendas. There
is only the bus, the cocoon, in its own humming hyperspace, and only in
daylight can you tally this time period when nothing else exists.
Close your eyes and
3.
There is a mall, so full of bustle and scream that it can only be
Christmastime. A huge tree rises from the boiling murk of people, baubled
and bedecked, lit with lashed-down embers of once holy fire. No one pays it
mind, except perhaps for the smallest children, who dawdle and gawk until
they get separated from their brood, and then scream their own solo into the
Zorn cacophony until they are found. Packages thump at legs and bags rustle
and crinkle, feet get sore, tempers twitch and are held, almost, in control
by the candy cane breath of the season's guilt, plus the thought of a stiff
drink well-earned back at home.
No one act or action could rise above this milling stampede - a
thousand cruelties, sympathies, and offhand acts of heroism are going on in
a boiling choreography, an anthill in L.L. Bean coats and NASCAR hats. Even
the most trained observer who tries to pick apart the cells in this squirm
must soon give up and resume his part in the dance - for does a flywheel
presume to comment on a cog, or ponder the nature of cogs, while the machine
is running? Easier to just grip the packages tighter, keep the head down,
step on toes and get toes stepped on, and squeeze toward the door, the lot,
the slush, the horns, and the onrushing darkness of a winter evening.
Close your eyes and
4.
There is a dining room, tastefully arranged with matching relatives,
all presiding sleepily over the gutted remains of one helluva feast. The
next week's leftovers lie plundered in glass bowls, ladles and serving
spoons slanting out of each like eroded Boot Hill tombstones, while at the
center, half a turkey carcass still steams, its crackly skin glinting in the
soft light. Empty plates, some covered in napkins like homicide victims,
sit in front of each place, occasionally picked at by an absent-minded
diner, idly nibbling on one last bit of dressing or a stray cranberry while
listening to another's conversation.
There is always a matron in a grouping such as this, benevolent as a
den mother, stern as a f¸hrer, and here she pours coffee from a white
decanter, handing a small pitcher of milk to an uncle, setting a sugar bowl
down in a rare plot of undeveloped table, between the mashed potatoes and
the last few yams dotted with half-caramelled marshmallows. She goes back
into the kitchen, followed by several relatives, to make drinks amid
murmurings, gossip clinking with ice in glasses, gin and whiskey priming
tongues aching to loosen like the belts of the overstuffed eaters.
There is a brittle camaraderie here, one whose shattering is a
foregone conclusion, talked about in mock-despair for months beforehand,
with rolled eyes and patronizing smiles. There is amused respect given to
the matron, an expert in the art of postponing the shattering, of keeping
the most hopeless cease fire alive well past the pumpkin pie, until less
jaded types might believe it was real. There is only the slightest sour
smack taste of how last year, and the year before that, and the year before
that, it wasn't quite so fun and funny when it went down, and how deep the
hurt came, how long it stayed. The relatives joke and mock the shattering
like cavemen made fun of the bogeyman.
And if one is given to wonder at how a houseful of people, united by
blood, on a day held holy by the world, can smirk and shrug about the wounds
they inflict even as they're plotting newer and gorier ones, and lament the
inevitable bloodletting without wondering what makes it such a foregone
conclusion in the first place, then it is perhaps best to quit the scene
altogether, pack hands in coat pockets and trudge out the door to another
appointment, though this brings its own dour commentary and wither of
disapproval, a momentary union that silently, sourly, keeps the
camaraderie's sugar glass intact for one more course, one more carol, one
more cigarette.
Close your eyes and
5.
There is a bed, larger than a lifeboat, covered in a comforter that's
ten acres of marshmallow fluff and good dreams. Light from a street lamp
squeezes through the slits of Venetian blinds, and leaves corduroy lines
across a tiny lump in the comforter, breathing softly, shallow teacups of
air. A cat pads into the room, to see if the coast is finally clear, and if
the frenzy is over, then makes a nimble leap to the foot of the bed, turning
and turning and turning and down to sleep, tail over nose, and dream cat
dreams.
On the nightstand is a small jewelry box, tipped over into a puddle
of spilled wine. There is a tiny gleam from the folds of velvet inside the
box - perhaps a dirty diamond? Stuck in the wine puddle, hanging halfway
off the nightstand like a plank on a pirate ship, is a Christmas card, its
cheery prefab smeared to a lipstick blosh. The wine bottle, almost empty,
sits on top of an alarm clock whose digital face is dark. Leaning against
this shadowy junk sculpture is a box that once contained half a dozen
condoms. It has been ripped open carelessly, and the two or three remaining
are half-out, fanned like a poker hand, peeking from the breach in their
cardboard hull.
Beside the bed on the floor, almost within arm's reach of its
sleeping occupant, is a shoebox, knocked over on its side. Spilling from it
like careless treasure is an assortment of vibrators, dildos, and a couple
of unidentifiable round and oval objects, and a set of fur-lined handcuffs,
along with the usual assortment of curlers, bobby pins, stray nickels and
hair scrunchies that seem to migrate to any box, drawer or enclosure, like
whores following an army platoon or carrion birds on a garbage scow. Next
to the box is a fingerprinted, smeary bottle of lube, and beside it, almost
invisible in the darkness, are several sad, skinned, translucent Trojans,
oozing their prize onto the carpet with glacial patience and drying tacky in
the cool nighttime stillness.
Next to the shallow breathing sleeper is a tousled indentation,
covers sweat-damped and disarrayed, but there is no one else in the room.
A door closes elsewhere with a snick, and faintly, footsteps can be heard,
crunching to nothing in new, hard snow. The cat wakes up, its eyes wide,
startled back from the time period where nothing else exists. The sleeper
in the marshmallow fluff and good dreams does not stir. After a moment, the
cat lays its head on its paws again, but for a few moments, its tail
twitches, and it does not rest for a while longer.
Close your eyes and
6.
One is not the loneliest number. This is one of the thousands of
lies pop music and popular clichÈs will try to sell you. They're all lonely
numbers.
Another lie is: it's the most wonderful time of the year.
It is, however, lonely at the top. That one's true.
Close your eyes and
7.
There is a movie with one actor one lead one jester one jackoff one
hero one zero one goat one numbnuts charlatan and seven billion zillion
extras all cardboard and glitter and collagen and foam rubber and the lead
waits and waits andwaitsandwaitsandwaits for the next scene for the equinox
for the swell of the orchestra to herald the others some others another any
other someone to make all the plot scene light sound talk glib fuck noise
worth the ticket or at least the box of goddamn popcorn because the mother
of all sad endings is the ending that isn't ending but just does a 360
forever around the heartbroken sadsack with the star on the door as he walks
around with his dick in his hand waiting for the snow to melt the sun to
come the ice to thaw the heart to warm but mostly just wishing for a sunset
to fade into.
Close your eyes and.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"That's What Dreams Are Made Of"
by Gloomchen - gloomchen@anada.net
doing cartwheels into a wall and all of my teeth falling out
Emeril LaGasse using canned macaroni and cheese as an ingredient
carrying around a dead cat and occasionally taking a bite
screaming at Gordon to give me back my journal
rolling a giant marble down a hill and having it break my grandparents'
plate glass window
dancing tap on a stage with my younger sister, petrified
watching MTV with Kurt Loder announcing Eddie Vedder's death
ditching backstage passes to George Thorogood for being a self-absorbed dick
selling Vicodin to teenagers
falling in love with a gas station attendant who looks strangely like Matt
LeBlanc
pushing my brother off of me because he's my brother and that's just gross
changing a computerized church sign to read "satan lives, kill christians"
telling old people to stop kicking me
hanging out with Dave Matthews and telling him how much I hate his band
having the penthouse suite in a retirement village
riding a bike to save a friend from hanging himself
trying to stop mom from sitting on the toilet because the spider in the
window will turn her into a zombie
hanging nets to partition a shared room that I'm not sharing with anyone
moving in with my ex-best friend and her four screaming brat children
grinding my teeth together until they start to crack and crumble
trying to avoid all those damn dead bodies everywhere
sitting on a giant swingset to fill up the car's gas tank
my grandma yelling at my grandpa to hurry up and finish eating already
being taken captive by a terrorist group that replaced fortune cookie
fortunes with messages about killing christians
all of the assistants getting fired, leaving me alone in shit work
having so many cats that I can't remember all of their names
living in a shitty apartment with the boiler in my bedroom
reading my diary from 1995
swearing I won a 7th prize in the lottery, then realizing I read it wrong
shopping for a pimp fur coat for my boyfriend
hanging out at a biker bar with Hulk Hogan and Kevin Nash
walking past cops shooting out a house in a drug raid and getting shot in
the ankle
rocking out at a Dream Theater concert in my high school gym
smashing fruit into the face of my ex-best friend
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Live Journals are to Journals What Vibrators are to Mirrors"
by Fabius Bile - PrimogenitorFabiusBile@yahoo.com
A very close and dear friend of mine has begun keeping a Live
Journal. It's taken me about two weeks to actually sit down and read it.
Her first entry exhibits surprise at her finally sitting down and making
one, stating that she is used to writing in order to vent her feelings. I
read through the entire thing. The next day I read through the entire thing
again, except the title of one of the entries had changed. It was regarding
an evening we shared with some friends, including one girl her boyfriend
brought along who ruined the experience by showing up highly inebriated.
Originally it was something along the lines of "Alcohol + (something or
other) = Slut". The new one read "Searching my pockets for patience, and
coming up empty-handed..."
This is a little discussion we had about it (Note: This is completely
unauthorized quoting. My only respite is that she doesn't read this.):
Me: whatcha up to?
Her: updating the ol' journal
Me: I saw that you changed the slut comment
Me: tsk
Me: censoring your own private thoughts?
Her: nah, just coming up with something better
Her: i change my mind a lot
Me: hmm. When you write in a pen-paper journal, do you scratch out parts and
rewrite them afterwards?
Her: absolutely
Her: you should see my journals
Me: hmm
Me: why? Isn't the point of a journal to go with your first thoughts,
capturing the moment?
Her: if you want it to be. i don't really care. my journal entries are like
little <her name> stories, and sometimes they need proofreading
Me: I guess that's why i don't like Live Journal. I'll shut up now, don't
want to discuss it.
Her: lol
Her: ok
Me: except I have to ask
Her: hmm?
Me: because I really, really, really want to know
Her: ok
Me: why are you writing it.
Her: to vent
Me: how so
Her: when i have a bad day, i go there, write about it, and i feel better
Her: and writing about my feelings helps me analyze it later
Me: but then you change them
Her: jesus, <my name>. i changed one title
Me: You're right, I either get into this discussion or I don't, this sounds
stupid at half-water.
So topic changed.
And that was the little tidbit that sparked me to write this. A
personal rant against a faceless audience where I spit out my personal
views.
I considered writing a Live Journal once. I sat down, loaded up the
program, and proceeded to spew out my innermost soul to the world.
Carefully, but still done. It was up about an hour before I sat back down
and began to change a few things. "Proofreading". A little word change
here, a clarification there, some prettying up yonder.
It was up half a day before I erased it and never touched it again.
Maybe I'm old fashioned. I keep a pen and paper journal. In it, I
write all my deeply hidden thoughts and feelings. I always assumed Journals
were places where you could take the time to be honest with yourself. A
chance to see what you are when no one is looking or judging, so you can see
for yourself and get a deeper appreciation of who you areÖand who you were.
As a result, I would never let anyone - no friend, no lover, no one -
read it. Hell, I'm embarassed just by reading it myself. It is full of all
the shallow thoughts I'd never own up to having, all my insecurities, fears,
regrets. All my desires, my lusts, the icky things that cannot be said. I
can tell a friend that I find so and so attractive, but it is in my journals
that I will say that I want to fuck them, that I want to own them if ever so
briefly, that I want to feel their naked skin pressed against mine. Only in
my journal will there be words of condemnation written in anger, a list of
the various people I lust after, and words of sorrow that I do not allow
myself to feel save when I pen them down. My journal is the last will and
testament to the side of me that no one sees, that shallow, selfish, crass,
fundamentally imperfect self that lies within everyone, outside of prying
eyes.
Which is why I actually respected Live Journals initially. It was a
chance to throw yourself into the teeming void of the world, to be seen by
hundreds of nameless eyes who hungrily devour your essence. To vent under
the cover of darkness, knowing that whatever judgement the world may pass,
they are not of your world.
But it was not until I sat down in front of that keyboard that I
realized just how strong human vanity can be. Even though in the end I know
it matters not what any of those readers out there think Ö I was still
driven to pretty myself up for them. I was engulfed with shame at the
realization that my Journal stop being a mirror to my soul, but instead
became a pretty picture drawn up to obtain the sympathy, admiration, and
even liking of those without a face. There was honesty there, buried under
a mountain of masturbatory drivel aimed at making me seem better than I
truly, deep down, am.
But just because I am too flawed and vain doesn't mean there are
truly honest people out there who use Live Journal as a Journal right?
I guess my friend is right. Live Journal is not about the journal of
a person, but instead nothing more than little stories about the person.
Just as much truth as fiction, a carefully edited reality show.
Oh, she has a right to that I suppose. She can take back her
appellation of slut to something that sounds better. She can sit there
carefully making each title oddly ironic or quirky or otherwise more
perfect. She can write to the world about her insane ex who fails to accept
the fact she moved on after him, and neglect to mention she broke up with
him only after being well on the way with a new relationship.
But personally, it bothers me that she is labelling this as a
journal, that she is calling this her life. That is nothing but a half-
truth. And what bothers me even worse is that she is convincing herself
that she is doing this to vent, to brutally examine her feelings.
I don't see it as venting. Instead, I see it as lying to yourself,
prettying up your life so you can look back and feel good about who you are.
A select few can read it - great. We sympathize with her insecurities, we
smile at her witticisms, we chuckle at the misadventures in her life, and we
sigh when bad things happen. Cue end credits.
That is all fine and dandy, but if this is what a journal is, perhaps
the word should be revisited and changed. Dishonesty bothers me, and in
this case it's an assault on two fronts. It is a half-truth told to anyone
who reads it, and worse, a bald faced lie to the writer.
Why?
Why else? Because it feels good.
Oh, I'm sure she's not the only one. Hell, even I fell prey to this.
But I pen these less than poetic words so that with any luck someone out
there will think twice before attempting to wank off in public. Not because
I'm against any of you wanking off to your heart's content, mind you, but
because I truly do believe in honesty.
/|/|
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/ ||| (c) 2003 Anada E'zine www.anada.net * Anada is cat-friendly.
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