2001-12-02 - 1:43 a.m.

I think that the Girlfriend may be reading this narrative. If so, and if you are the Girlfriend, please stop. This thing is for me, and you have to let me have it. Please respect my privacy.

Anyway, for those of you who are not the Girlfriend (namely, me), things are pretty OK. Wrote a new song today--I think it's pretty good.

Actually, I can't write anything and I'm goddamn pissed. Actually, I know for a fact that the Girlfriend has been reading this narrative. It's one of those things you can't prove but you know. For example, the Girlfriend always uses my towels. I don't like using wet towels, but I also can't afford (time and money) to wash my towels after each and every use. When I change towels, I'll put a clean towel in the bathroom so I don't get a wet surprise the next morning. Often, when I put a fresh towel down ahead of time, the towel will be soaking wet. I never used it, but it's wet nonetheless. Hmmm. I actually have quite a few varying examples to prove the "Girlfriend constantly uses my towels" theory, but I won't go into them here.

But you can't challenge the Girlfriend on anything like that--it honestly isn't worth the trouble. If I challenged her about the towel issue, she'd make me feel petty about the issue, she'd point out other things that have nothing to do with the issue in question, and she'd use other tools that would take too long to explain here. Sucks. It really does bother me about the towels, too.

The same rules apply right now. I caught the Girlfriend reading this narrative, but I'm not going to confront her with it. The URL was up in the "search box" (?) when I came in the room (she had been crying--nothing unusual). In addition, she wasn't "on" a page--she was on the default screen. It was pretty fucking obvious that this very site was the last one she had visited. When I asked her about it, she denied it.

I'm so fucking pissed that she would read this goddamn thing. It doesn't matter what I say here. This could be a narrative about puppies--there's nothing incriminating here. But the goddamn site is called Diaryland, for Crissakes.

Goddamn respect it.

I wanted to write something else, or discover what it was I wanted to write when I sat down. I can't do that now. I don't know if I can ever be honest here again, and that's fucking sad.

Pretty fucking sad.

Thanks.

Go cry now.

Oh yeah, and fuck you.

Now you can fucking cry.

Oh yeah, and I'm glad you're crying. You fucking deserve it.

The only thing that sucks about the fact that you're crying is the fact that I have to deal with it later.

Stop reading my goddamn diary, OK?