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BY X

09/01 Direct Link
I'm catching up. Already. First day writing and I'm making up a day. It's strange that I'm trying to write in yesterday's tone. It's as if I was trying to write in someone else's voice. I guess in a sense I am. I'm writing as yesterday's me.

Beginning is always the second hardest thing. It ranks behind closing in my opinion and I'm sure there are others who share my views. The attractive thing about that which never ends is that you never have to make that closing, that finish. Not quite sure if that's a good thing or not.
09/02 Direct Link
Holidays are something that can be appreciated by almost anyone. Children get to skip school, adults get to skip work, the elderly may see relatives who visit far too infrequently. You're not asked for an ID, your appearance is not gauged. True that some are better fitted to certain holidays; Christians at Christmas, etc. For the most part however, there is a universality to them. Everyone gets to enjoy themselves. It's a shame that there aren't more things that share this idea of universal happiness. There would be far less anger in the world if more joyful things were shared.
09/03 Direct Link
Life is full of tiresome games. Who said what, what happened where, why is it this way. Schoolyard fare that never seems to die.

My father used to tell me to act like a grown-up. I would hear it quite often, and from a variety of sources. What they all failed to mention is that once you "grow up" no one acts that way. That is, no one acts in the conventional grown-up fashion. They don't adhere to the generally accepted standards of adulthood. Hemming and hawing about nothing before they turn around and lie to children about propriety again.
09/04 Direct Link
My family tends to suffer bouts of grandiose self-delusion from time to time. We get hurt by, and take offense to, things that aren't meant in the sense that we think they are. It stems from this crazy, egotistical notion that we're superior in some way. This superiority complex makes us feel like the targets of everyone's jokes and snide comments. It's taken me a long time to realize that no one really cares enough to insult me that way. I just think I mean more to the world than I do.

I've realized it, now why can't I stop?
09/05 Direct Link
Common ground is the birthplace of friendliness. Whether this common ground be an interest, a cultural tie, or like feelings really holds no import. The ties that bind acquaintances and friends can be made across any bridge.

People sometimes find that even in their darkest hour, when they are so frayed that they believe only vestiges of social humanity remain within them, they will still connect with someone. Many times the span will even be this loneliness.

I know this to be true, yet I'm still surprised time and again by strangers befriending me through the most insignificant of ties.
09/06 Direct Link
Detachment leads most oftentimes to loneliness. I think we all can agree here. Stoic, unemotional souls push away would-be comrades with a simple glance. A cold, thoughtful stare begets a far more unapproachable being than one could ever conjure through actual effort.

I've been possessed by this detachment for as long as I can remember. Most things don't really earn more than a glance from me. It seems to me that this is why people have been calling me an asshole for as long as I can remember. All it really boils down to is that I just don't care.
09/07 Direct Link
Education has been twisted and perverted for too long. Children don't go to school to learn, but to socialize. I think this reality has become almost self-evident. The truly disgusting reality here is that no one is doing anything about. We hear about education reform but we do not see results. Kids are getting through school with skills that would make an elementary school student in any other civilized country laugh. The problem is that we try to drill knowledge into their heads. We don't seem to understand that they're not going to learn what they don't want to know.
09/08 Direct Link
Curse him; curse him well.
That he should have lived
to bear my name!

The beast he is,
the beast he was,
apparently, all mine the blame

Don't speak to me
of love unconditional.
Him, love could not tame

That blasted wretch
presuming to be God's hand,
to him, precious life is just a game

I do not doubt the fact
that justice was well served,
when from the judge his sentence came

Though twenty years is far too little.
Four score would not
purge my shame

Evil incarnation of stygian fire,
oh that I've lived to be his sire!
09/09 Direct Link
She had not come home again last night. It had been three nights of torture. The only signs of life being the three short voice mails to let her know that she was still "out". Out partying. Out having sex. Out doing drugs. Dirty, disgusting things. Her beautiful daughter. So beautiful.

What agony. What unspeakable, disturbing agony. It permeated through her body entire. It existed in every cell and made her skin tingle in an awful way; as if maggots crawled about her flesh. She could smell them. She could smell the maggots eating away at her once beautiful body.
09/10 Direct Link
There doesn't seem to be any light at the end of this tunnel. There's just the utter, absolute black. The darkness beyond darkness.

A frigid chill permeated through her clothes, through her very bones. It froze her marrow and chilled her spine. Body so cold, such that she couldn't even shake.

Blackest reality. Darker than any night. No stars to shine. Nothing to break this midnight firmament, the sable vault. What cruel existence in this darkened land. This place whose name even souls dare not whisper. A frightening sea of nothingness. Just the thin, cold air. Just these frozen thoughts.
09/11 Direct Link
Nausea is such a horrible thing. You're left to it's repeated pounding. Shot after shot of sickness and malaise wash over like the waves on a cold, drab beach. Your body lies vulnerable to the crash of those behemoths; of nature's perpetual cruelty. There is no escape. There is no recourse. Nausea leaves you empty and dark, fighting your own body for sanity.

She hated feeling nauseous like this; sickness with no salve but patience. Patience to wait out her body shaking and her skin sweating and her head pounding and her stomach telling her to give in and die.
09/12 Direct Link
Some speak of courage and bravery. They advertise the exercise of these virtues in the face of troubles within and without. However, the dearest trials of courage, bravery, even sanity, come when they are needed against oneself. When the second-guessing and the questioning catch up. When it is their turn to face their own walk through late-autumn forests in the midnight of their souls. Trees rustling. Owls sounding out their pale cries. A frost born of the unknown; of the unlit path ahead. What know they of pain and torture? Of a child lost and a parent all to blame?
09/13 Direct Link
This sickness, this disease, this rotting of conscience and thought, it hurts tremendously. We regret so much, and yet admit so little. How many times have you pleaded with the Almighty, with Father Time, "turn back the clock!" ? And yet his cold, cruel heart never yields.

She had cried for friends and family, but her daughter was something else. She was worth far more than mere tears. Despair can know no bounds when it concerns one's progeny.

Then she was broken from her spell by a hideously overwhelming, blaring noise.

What could I do though? the light was green.
09/14 Direct Link
There never seems to be enough time for it all. By "it" I of course mean all the things we're supposed to do. The job. The school. Other responsibilities. All the things that society tells us we must attain, we must keep, we must do well….and by "well" I mean according to the rules this society has put forth. It seems to me that it's bullshit in the end. Who's going to care who I was, what I did, etc? No one. So why does it matter what I do now? I don't know, but it seems to matter nonetheless.
09/15 Direct Link
I complain too much. I complain about my life, my job, everything. I bitch and moan with everybody about things that won't mean shit in the end. I live in a fantasy land, a make-believe world. Nothing I do, nothing I say, matters in the end.

I'm thinking of being an English major. Someone once told me something interesting about that: "All the English majors I know are mixing paint at Home Depot." What a glorious damn recommendation of the English degree. But I know I could do more with it. I know I could do better. So did they.
09/16 Direct Link
I'm mystified at the low targets we set in America today. It seems that we aim lower and lower for ourselves. Finally, we complete the disgrace by the perpetual underachievement that is the birthright of nearly every American. It's disgusting.

When someone tries to convince me that our school system is fine, a scoff is my only reply. Someone told me today, "Kids get out of school knowing the basics in math, reading pretty good, and writing ok. You can't really ask more from them then that." Oh, we can't ask more from 13+ years of carefully planned instruction? Ha.
09/17 Direct Link
There is despair in life. It exists no matter the situation.

If one is the passionate type, one of those who "lives life to the fullest," then solid ground beneath the feet is missed on occasion. The rush and the exhilaration of a "free" life evaporate quickly in harsh times.

Then there are those who are bored with the repetitiveness of their lives. Most often they wake to realize that they never took that step into the unknown they had promised themselves. The saddest part is that it never occurs to them that it's not too late for that step.
09/18 Direct Link
For me, honesty is the bane of all regret. When I behave honestly, living it with every step, I cannot regret my actions. How would I be able to? I am only doing what I feel is right. There is nothing more I can do.

If I speak to someone without hiding my thoughts, I will not second-guess myself. If what I spoke was thought out well, then I have acted to the best of my ability.

The more you hide, the harder the hiding becomes. In the end, honesty is just easier, no matter how much it may hurt.
09/19 Direct Link
"I swear, if that fag ever makes a move on me..." he began carefully.

He was easy to hear over the buzz of the waiting room. K-Rock radio tank top, jean shorts, ratty hair, dirty teeth; he had it all.

"When he told me to take down the pants I wasn't too sure or nothing, then he started spreading the cheeks...." he said incredulously.

I'm not sure he understood the purpose of doctors.

Then he got macho, "If that guy ever touches my instant lotto jackpot again i'ma bust the ten ouncers out on him."

I wanted to hurt him.
09/20 Direct Link
The first day of a trip is raw and fresh. Raw in a good way. It's clean and fun and exciting. It's a cold shower.

Blue. Very blue. Again, in a good way. Blue like Caribbean skies. Blue like Caribbean seas. Blue like frosty mountain air in the Alps. Nothing but a vault across the sky and tall jagged Atlases holding it up.

That is it. Trips are good. Vacation, business, anything, trips are good. Alps, Caribbean, New Jersey, who cares. It's awesome, that feeling that everything is new again. Even your body feels like you've just shed old skin.
09/21 Direct Link
I'm not sure what I value more: my close friendships or my distant aquaintances. I see my friends, both close and far, and I have fun with them all. They all seem to enjoy my company and I know I enjoy theirs. I haven't seen an exception yet. Kids I haven't seen in years popping up out of the woodwork and it's not even like a surprise. We sit, bullshit, and yammer away like the kids we were and are. It's like a day hasn't passed. There's still community between us, it ties us together as we sit carrying on.
09/22 Direct Link
When you lose someone close to you, it hurts. When you lose someone who was so very close to you once long ago, it's hard to know what to feel. You sit and remember the good times. You try to remember their face. You lay in shock and confusion regretting the fact that you did indeed fulfill the cliché to a tee; you had always meant to get together and see each other after all. You cry just to cry. You force the tears until you get to the real ones you have bottled up. Crocodile tears for real tears.
09/23 Direct Link
The lady was using her phone. I looked at her with my best look of bewilderment; didn't faze her a bit. Lou Dobbs sitting to my right gives it his best try with a stern glare. He even sits up a bit so she'll notice. She doesn't.

Stewardess comes by, asks her to turn it off, we're LANDING after all. She nods and smiles and starts to close it -- only to continue conversing when the attendant walks away. What a grand display of nerve and selfishness. I mean, Dobbs looked like he was going to have a heart attack.
09/24 Direct Link
As a child, I rode a "kiddie-coaster" once: a slow roller coaster with a level, oval track; no dips, rises, tilts. It was neither fast nor dangerous, but I was frightened immensely. Crying and screaming halted the ride for my removal. I told my family I had seen a dead body over the far edge; presumably thrown from that furious beast. I can still remember that body, forged in imagination, features hidden by time. I hate that my life has become that coaster: tame, yet I scream to be let off. I could use a good smack in the face.
09/25 Direct Link
The female race's hold over men! I won't waste too much time on the subject, important as it may be, because countless men have expatiated about every inch of the topic already.

I'll throw in my two cents though.

No matter how mature I think I may be, no matter how suave and sophisticated I may consider myself, I still degenerate into a babbling child when trying to speak to a woman I like. BUT, no matter how foolish I feel, afterwards I always agree with Candide's Pangloss, "Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds."
09/26 Direct Link
Every writer needs to get their hands dirty now and then. Beyond serving to clear the mind, manual labor often becomes the font of inspiration. Too much time spent in the clouds renders one's writing white and fluffy: plain and useless, descriptions that should horrify any writer, be they aspirant or great novelist.

All kinds of events can lead to glorious ideas. Sometimes great writing is found in the raging wars of ideals and spirit in the mountains of Spain, and other times it's found in the struggle between an old man and a fish. Beauty lies in the experience.
09/27 Direct Link
I'm so productive on Friday afternoons. Seriously. The idea of liberation from work for two full days gives me energy unmatched by the rest of the week. Caffeine, the great energizer itself, comes nowhere close to this boost. I begin new projects, make great progress on others, and finish things that have become stagnant. I don't understand why so much gets done on Friday, that's just the way it is. My own common sense tells me that there's something fundamentally wrong with Friday being the most productive day, but hell, I've always known that something is fundamentally wrong with me.
09/28 Direct Link
I had a snow day today. When I started college again I had a dream one night of this day. I asked myself, "What happened to snow days?" No feeling is quite like the excitement of going to sleep one winter night expecting that tomorrow might be one of those wonderfully perfect days.

I got a call from somebody early this morning -- secretary or wife, it doesn't matter – she said that my teacher had an emergency and that class was canceled. I love school now, yet the joy of a snow day can still own me so completely.
09/29 Direct Link
As soon as I got a decent job, I went out and got myself a decent car. I was a fool, no, I am a fool. I still am that fool that went out and foolishly bought that car. I haven't changed as much as I'd like to think I have. So I went out and bought it, now I'm stuck with it. I love driving my car, but I hate how it owns me. Every thought of spending has to go by my car first. It is my treasurer, my accountant, my boss, my slave-driver. God I hate it.
09/30 Direct Link
In Miami, bland rules. The leaves never change color. The people are all the same. The weather stays hot; dry or wet. I can feel my clothes stick to me instantly when I walk out the door, like my glasses fogging up, vision blurring, as I step out of the AC.

It's all the same all the same all the same. Day in and day out life doesn't change. People say the same things. I think the same things. Life has become so plain and tasteless. Dreadfully boring and meaningless; Absurd. There has to be, somewhere out there, a release.