2003-05-13T14:33:00.000-07:00

the desert doesn't hate the rain, it just lacks it. a masochist only misses pain until it gets a chance to inflict it upon itself, which for any competent masochist, will not be too long. and again doesn't rhyme with either. you're mortifyingly heedless.

remember that day after you introduced me to lois the pie queen when i found out that jessie died after all that sad drama w/ phillip's 'houseguest' and you decided to walk me to work? you tried to cheer me up by telling me the borges story of the library where all books have already been written and i got really upset, attempting to link your retelling of the story with your views on kant which i furiously contested. i was so sad and freaked out and i wish i could take the whole parking lot scene back. i wish we would have just gone on telegraph. again, you were right, i was wrong for you. but you're still the best thing i ever had and now everybody knows it. so if i evite you to friendster.com can we like, um be friends? bsides i need files fr. cabinet 4 deutsche class. despite the fact that soren k. says irony is a way of life in the dog kennel of human existence, theres a closet sentimentalist buried under all those layers of irony. anyway rain, pain and again rhythme beautifully and "and again doesnt rhythme with either" is a sentence fragment and you spelled rhythme wrong. you're excruciatingly fragile.

Ahh, look how we grow. I remember that day, but it was a day long before the fateful one on which I deconstructed the skillful wrath of the patronizeguilttripsweetheartapologysnipe. The problem, my something, is that in your case all the charm goes out once the mystery departs. again rhymes with the rest on paper alone. It is the poetry of a deaf mute. Soon you must find someone to talk to, and when you do, talk to them with a smile and an ear, and lets let Kierkegaard speak for himself. rhythme is a compellingly stupid word. Gone are the days when our inconsistencies can be played off as creativity. The poetry slam has left, but the slammers remain, grasping onto the moments when their incompetence was dazzling. Who's nostalgic now? Who's ironic? It ain't me, babe. But all is forgotten when we smile at one another, and god forsake a world in which two people must wholeheartedly agree in order to interact. This is the sad fantasy of Long Island hardcore kids and Oakland art school knitters. So if you want to be friends, or if you want your shit back, either or both can be accomplished with a phone call any time before the bars close. Watch the fragments abound. Watch, watch. When it all comes down, I still check up, and that I must and will and hereby admit. Whether it's for information orammunition seems unimportant. Let's not fight, cuz I might win, and no one wants that. Lets just forget I ever quoted Seven Mary Three at you. Let's be college friends. Let's be pleasant exes. Let's be obedient comrades of our demographic. Let's see.

Oh yeah, and you're brazenly uncircumspect.

its hard to be friends when the nicest things that can be said are: "The problem, my something, is that in your case all the charm goes out once the mystery departs." and "I deconstructed the skillful wrath of the patronizeguilttripsweetheartapologysnipe." death mutes, much like gnomes, are people too and people dont need friends like these.

2003-03-27T12:26:00.000-08:00

you will be my frankenstein blog where all the mistakes will show in lovely stitches...

my own private blogaho