10.Mar.2001

today

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welly welly welly welly welly well.

I can tell today is also going to be uneventful.
The last couple of days haven't really been living per se, but more so an existing.
I knew my browser would crash so I kindly added the new diaries I stumbled upon into my favourites list.
It's spelled 'favorites', though.
I harbour an intense fascination with beating myself in the titular region.
The other day, I was banging an empty Gatorade bottle into my arm-pit to the theme of Peter Gabriel's 'Shock the Monkey', and I was magnificently content with being marginally spacey.
It wasn't, like, Kevin Spacey spacey, though.
It was just Radiohead spacey, if all they did was smoke pot, and the whole political stance ordeal was removed.
I don't smoke pot, though.
I kind of have to be ordered, courtly, away from substances like that. I also shouldn't really be drinking, but I find it necessary at all costs.
I woke up this morning at 5 to find Joe had left the lamp on in the computer room, and an un-capped bottle of Pepto-Bismol *maximumstrengthprotectivecoating* sat next to the monitor.
It's been one of those days.

I'm really starting to admire Bobby, and kind of wish I had an 800 number so he'd call to ask what I thought of the extreme pointlessness of life. Now I have to think of a poem that involves Mara's cunt. *cunt request line*.

I wrote an e-mail to Girlblast yesterday and mentioned something I read on diaryland, saying it was from Bobby; Kris responded with 'Bobby perceptions Bobby?'. I had to laugh. It was awful funny. I also ended that particular girly e-mail with a demure slam against dead-beat fathers, and how one crawled from the woodwork to make his presence known.
One of these days I'll get over it. One of these days it will be rightly justified, in a mature/wise manner.

Not today.

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time & machine