2002-11-15 - 8:58 p.m.

i'm butt a guest column:

you can all fuck off- yeah, you, those in the choke-hold of love for this diaryland thing- it is more than i honestly don�t understand--it is that again and again as i sit and nod and squirm and daydream and mostly pretend to listen (but listen enough so that i don�t get caught pretendin�) as once again a couple of friends spout off those wonders of this land of diary and the citizens of it, while we sit in some grease-coated booth drinkin� anythin� cheap that comes in a bottle, while they talk and talk and talk about that guy with affinity for hangover or the recent html breakthrough of making text bold or how such and such said that someone else said something that upset um...ummmmm, shiiiitttttttt. i guess i don�t pretend enough to remember �cause i can�t find to mind another line to follow �nother �or�--that i realize that i honestly don�t care enough to want to understand-

and when on the slip of slippery vinyl, when my mind goes blurry and my hearing fades, when my eyes go over their heads, scan the crowd lookin� for some interesting face to focus on, hopin� that said interesting face is connected to hot bod, hopin� further that that hot bod has dick attached and maybe i can meet his eyes just once so i can look away and never look again, knowin� that he�s not gonna make that mistake of lookin� for seconds and i dread the catch of that (but love how terrible it feels)...it�s on those nights when i realize objects that can capture my impractical desires cum even rarer than the black cats crossin� me path and they�re still talkin� and i�m startin� to thinkin� that maybe it�d be more fun to get myself off in closed quarters but then recall to remember that i don�t know how to do that anyway--so i stay....

i blame you--not for my lack of knack for clicking me clit; not for the man i can not find nor when man is found he doesn�t find me; not for the film of the coating of french fries, a pledge-like finish for the booths we sit, the blubber sweating off cheap tin tables, the smear of its fingerprints a haze on dim mirrors and mucky walls, everything scathed in its liquifaction (�cept the napkin holder, forever a shiny untouched); not for the chatter �bout things that hold little interest, that bubble of babble--a grisly bear risin� up for the fear of bore....

no, not any of those things- it�s what are you talkin� �bout here really, you citizens of this land of diary--the point of sharing your diary seems counterproductive, the point of having strangers understand you seems needless, the point of acheiving some sort of fame from this vicious circle seems unnecessary, the point of reaching out to people in this type of forum seems half-assed--i fail to see the beauty in a bunch of people writing about their lives to a bunch of other people writing about their�s in such an x-lax form- where�s the courage, where�s the art--where�s the truth?

i blame you for giving me something--somethin� that should be so simple to figure out--that i am unable to gather the snap to energy to find the interest for understanding-

...and i guess i could go on--but why?

--the roommate (i.e. the Roommate)