2002-06-28 - 9:59 a.m.

Fuck.

I'd like to write anything here, and by anything, I mean something. And by something, I don't even mean anything specific.

There's no gun to my head here; it's not like I'm vacationing in China, but I do personally feel the need to construct each sentence as carefully as possible, so as to completely avoid using this diary, even accidentally, as a pain-inflicting instrument of loaded words.

I'd like to talk about what's going on in my life right now, but if I did, I'd end up saying something that would most likely make things worse.

OK, so I'd like to talk about something other than that, but to do so would be equivalent to skipping around, tra-la-la style, in utter indifference to the gravity of the present situation.

OK, so perhaps I could at least defend myself a little? Uh-uh. To do so would imply that someone is less than 100% right about me, and that's a no-no.

So in actuality, there isn't really anything at all I can possibly say here. In typical Flingiedo fashion (of which I'm not in the least ashamed), I'm clamming up when things get a little over my circumlocutious head.

In fact, I've probably said too much already. In fact, I should probably just stick to my original plan of keeping the fan away from the flames and not writing here for a little while.

But, after consulting the calendar function on my Palm IV, I really don't think that it's necessary to go two or three weeks without writing here.

And I gotta (re)start somewhere.