29.Jan.2004
I close my eyes
--
I need to make a connection
This entire entry is dedicated to the effervescent wonder of Becky, who, without me asking, purchased for me another three-month Gold membership. Becky, you know, we're approaching the year-mark together. We'll have to celebrate accordingly.
--
I've been spinning my ear-canals wild to Madonna's Ray of Light lately. My moods have lifted. My priorities are indexed. My clothes no longer fit properly. I am down to one mesh blouse, one army-green, square-cut tank-top, one velvet skirt and a pair of pin-stripe trousers, and one delicious stream of opiates. Everything else will be sold.
Oh, I know, these details are superfluous and boring. You want me to wax poetic or possibly wane idiotic on some element of society that unhinges my peaceful composure. If I weren't fresh from another sibling-stabbed fracas, I'd probably do so.
I forgave him. I suppose we forgave one another. I turn very mean on whiskey.
--
I'm cleaning out my harddrive, wading through the myriad of chat transcripts I've saved over the months, tittering profusely or igniting my pensive eye-smile or scowling abhorrently or reflexively deleting, and as much as I should despise a few of these memories, they amuse me to a time where I was constantly walking upon egg-shells for no one important.
He said, once, "It would probably be best for you if you thought of me as a piece of shit."
How about I not think of you at all?
--
I have a fever for something scandalous. Constant trickery must befall someone in my circle via my hand. The evening is just beginning. I am fresh from numerical tedium. I would love a Christian Dior leather skirt.
--
Darling boy, I haven't been fair to you. I merely sometimes find you acerbating. I think we've a galaxy of possibilities. It's such an untouched subject, and I doubt tapping lightly its surface in this realm would serve it justice. I am not giving up on you. There is something changing beneath the shrinking layers of me.
I hear you. I call to you. I hear you. Everything's going to be just fine.
--
Here, voyeurs, humor me and take a gander at my current desktop wallpaper. If you really want my respect, you can tell me from where the picture came and also from where the "sandwich" folder's title arose.
--
I'm not like this all the time.
I'm not like this all the time.
I'm not like this all the time.
--
time & machine