11:26 p.m. - 2001-10-16
Instead of talking about my life in my journal, I end up talking about nothing but my journal in real life.
It makes sense though, my life has shrunk away to the point that I don't even want to visit my friends and family if it means leaving the proximity of this fucking machine.
I've even found myself trying to like chat rooms just so I have something to do in between neurotically checking my e-mails and reading journals. I don't like the chat rooms. I feel out of place and find myself mostly resisting the urge to make sarcastic remarks and provoke people. But for some reason, I'm trying to get hooked anyway, like the coke user who doesn't like the first, second or third time they do it- but shit- the fourth time they see the fucking light. Or the first time cigarette smoker, coughing and hacking, but willing to make those next few attempts toward addiction.
That's my indication to see if I anyone has mailed me.
Nope, check back in ten minutes please MSN angel.
Oh well, enough of the bitch fest. My short term plan is to start living my life again (so that I'll have something to write about of course) and to see if I can get this little habit down to a manageable level.
IR-regardless, don't be surprised if I'm here again tomorrow with another pretentious, condescending essay or a lame attempt to recall the days when things actually happened in my life.
I mean, shit, soon I'll have to resort to writing about which key on the keyboard is my favorite and why.
"...got a good ol' fashion passion for smashin' what they built,