top secret diary
melissa & poems & archive & danger list & email
Friday, January 24, 2003
Movable Type can blow me, too. You want to make a comment? Fucking email me. Whatever bullshit you have to say should be worth the effort.
Oh, the board worked for a bit, whores, but now it's back to pointing and laughing at me. "The board giveth and it taketh away," indeed. I don't know the prophetic effect of my own Bible appropriation.
My TIC whores: the board hasn't let me post for the past few days. It is a technological mystery. I weep. I'm a ghost. I can see you but I can't touch you.
Thursday, January 23, 2003
Jeans for twenty dollars. HOT DAMN!
Jeff called with his Chinese phone card, which kept disconnecting. Despite a conversation late into the night, I still got up and went to the gym a few hours later. High-five me on that, motherfucker. (Jeff got humped by a dog! Jeff got humped by a dog!)
E-Bow the Letter on vinyl. Yes, it's okay to love me like you love no other.
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
I didn't go to class this morning, because my body is rebelling. It has decided to quit on me, tired of holding out for better pay and for the chance of a higher standard of living, and now! Continual and random pain. Someone beat me after I fell asleep, crawled into the Batcave with a stick and maybe a fist-sized rock, jealous because I purchased Cutest Outfit Ever at Old Navy yesterday, exacting retribution for my sins.
Some dumb woman gave me a dirty look in the grocery store last night as she passed me. I wasn't touching my boobs or anything: I was selecting juice from the cold case, calling myself "The Juice Monster" in a loud voice, and lamenting the fact that Juice Monster had no place left in her cart to put the juice. I wasn't hurting no one. Except after she passed by me with her look of contempt, I wanted to punch her teeth out and leave them sprayed all over the contents of her cart. Hag!
The woman who caught me dancing in the shoe store merely smiled and encouraged me to get it on, amused by my two-steppin' antics in a pair of high-heeled sandals.
I ain't no punk kid. I'm just trying to get through life without cutting my own head off. All I ask is for the freedom to refer to myself as the fucking Juice Monster without getting shit from sour ladies in horrible green dresses.
Monday, January 20, 2003
I am hostile right now! Let me direct your mouth to my imaginary dick. You know what to do.
Ignore me. I have to bleed out my random aggression through nasty posts to my own site.
Oh, you think me silly and young. That's okay. I pity you back.
Hem, and their album Rabbit Songs. If you are my friend, then I trust you with my life, but more importantly, with music recommendations. Margaret put Hem on a mixed CD. I don't know how Margaret found Hem herself. I feel like this is something I will give to my girl-child Scout one day, along with charms and her first sundress and ass-kicking pants and summer sandals. I won't have pearls to hand down, but I will have music to pass on.
It is one of the most beautiful, heartbreaking, light and wonderful albums I have ever heard. If I could conceive of a Top 5 Albums list, it would go on it, if only Pearl Jam and RHCP and Gene weren't so fucking prolific with the motherfucking-fantastic record-making.
When I go, I want to die without fear. I think I want to smile. But I also want to go out kicking and screaming, biting with my teeth and flashing my scrubby nails -- I never want to be ready to go. I am in love with this world on the good days, and I want to be in love with my life so much so that the thought of the end is unbearable. I'm a weeper. I'll panic and sob, upset that this is the last of it, my time is over and there's no take-backs: there will be no calm and dignified last moment. I'll end up dying with the last snarl of an ugly-cry on my face.
Sunday, January 19, 2003
man dreams one day to fly
a man takes a rocket ship into the skies
lives on a star that's dying in the night
and follows in the trail, the scatter of light
turn it on, turn it on, you turn me on
slow down my beating heart
slowly, slowly love, slow down my beating heart
U2, In A Little While
My friend Margaret leaves for Wales today. The hand of God intervened to allow us to speak to each other one last time, before she's off flying over the ocean for five months of beautiful beautiful adventure. Now half of my beloveds are on this continent with me, and the other two are being the best and brightest women I know, in the UK. My heart is torn. I need to be in four places at once.
I need to gather everyone together to my chest and smother them in my ill-proportioned bosom.
My personal motto has evolved from "Fuck 'em all to hell" to "Arrrgh, matey," and is now making a colorful pit-stop on "Blow me."
Carcass and corn nuggets for the midday meal today. Hobbits would thrive in the south! I could keep a sex slave pet hobbit fat and happy, real easy. I'd love to see one tear into a mess of black-eyed peas. I bet they could put away some cornbread.
I bought socks with red devils on them! Well I'll be damned. Satan keeps m'feet warm, and I'm promoting evil, which I don't get to do often enough.
Write things, then erase them. Do it again and again. You're roleplaying me.
Lately I do homework and enjoy it. I'm getting excited, thinking about what tasks I will accomplish tomorrow, and whether or not I will wear a shirt while doing them. Academia and partial nudity: these are my concerns. Flashcards and reflection papers! Boob A and Boob B.
I make redundancy cool.