Tuesday, May 26, 2009


i don't usually like to be the one that has to go first.
but i do like to take responsibility for my actions: and i did not complete the assigment on time, mostly for lack of pre-planning for a memorial day weekend out of town, and for that i must pay.

enough excuses.
on with the pain.

for those of you too lazy to read back to the punishment for the assignment, i have to publish an entry from my childhood diary.

allow me to say that while cracking open my journal from freshman year i was half hoping to find some nuggets of proustian wisdom, or at least some pissed off lines poetry raw enough to write a punk rock song about. there is this real cool event called mortified where people read aloud writing from their younger years and it is often very telling, very hilarious, and very insightful. spoiler alert: i was just a dumbass fourteen year old with a decent vocabulary and NOTHING worth writing about.

some more background on the diary (to delay the inevitable entry itself.)
it is a black spiral bound volume with some woman's face on it from an italian fresco--i probably spent the entirety of that months allowance on it, and its DEFINITELY the most pretentious looking volume a teenager could find in Barnes and Noble. it has this gentle, yet profound reminder etched in the front with a number two pencil: "A LOT IS TWO WORDS." ladies and gentlemen, advice (if that's what it was meant to be) to live by.

oh, and i will spare you the entry which i wrote while procrasting on a hamlet paper. i replaced all the words "has" and "is" with "hath." i'm not kidding.

and another one where i honest to god reference "acid jazz." no lie.

this is an entry that i taped into the journal. i have no idea why. it sounds like i am sneaking out of the house that night though i have no recollection of ever doing something like that successfully. i mostly stayed inside and watched MTV and the knife show on QVC. i date it at the very end: july 17.

i try to keep the original punctuation, capitalization, and line breaks as best as possible to the original, you know, because its all intentional. my comments in brackets. {i had to.}

"so far i have an empty downstairs talking to me in creepy house-speak *shhhh* shut the hell up at Bed Time *oh* {Right here there is a LOOOOng space} but {Another LOOOOng space}

{New paragraph} I'm not tired instead I'm raging in fact but the outside is even more oppresive what with the neighbors burgler lights & the shadows left by the street lamps & the pourous lava rocks awaiting my nervous feet clutching the window sill my hands splayed on the screenless hole in the wall (to freedom to nowhere) but i stay & stew because now the malaise has set in & I am active enough only to terrorize my freshest set of misquito bites & take a peek every so often at the unlit candle* I left outside to let my visitor know I am here-- the visit which was supposed to arrive an hour ago (give or take a few exstatic moments of course.) my itchy little welts mock me as they grow bigger and my train of thought chugs smaller & smaller at each rotation.

...& goddamn my ankle itches why can't i secrete calamine lotion from my pores like people who secret calamine from their pores can...

{At this point i let loose on what's really going on...she's upset about a boy! suprise!}

I'll go to Great America & I'll cry & no one will notice & that's good that's great in fact 'cause crying is fucking stupid & i never asked to be loved even though i probably wanted to be but it's no fun 'cause you're on your tippy toes just to keep it (That's not a metaphor. I'm pretty sure the boy i'm talking about was really tall.) & i hope i fall off the damn roller coaster {yeah--swears!} & wave as i plummet to my death after all. My hands are too small for me to be beautiful anyway. {What?}

{Later i write the first stanza to the following poem. Bear in mind that it is highly unlikely i had passed second base at this point in time. }

How far we income (sic.)
For a cheap feel and a pulse tone
I hate that i want you to
Figure 8 my back
I hate that you could be someone
Else when you do that
(editors note:WHAAAAAAAAT?)


*(editors note from the future back to the past in the form of advice: consider that an UNLIT candle is maybe the least effective beacon system one could fashion for a night heist, and probably the reason they never showed up. you dumbass.)

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