Hours of fun.
Must say this to a fat person I don’t like:
“I thought you people were supposed to be jolly.”
> Watching Dangerous Lives Of The Altar Boys
I’ve been eating only Cream of Wheat since last night, and it’s Sooo good. I’m going to try to see how long I can go with just Cream of Wheat, everyone wants to know what my poo would look like with an only cream of wheat diet. I’m going to try to see how long I can go with only eating Cream of Wheat. It’s so yummy. I could do a commercial. They want to see what my poo will look like and send it to ratemypoo.com.
> Nine Inch Nails - Reptile “oh my beautiful liar / oh my precious whore / my disease my infection / i am so impure”
I’m realizing now that I am the icon of everything I hate. I am vain, shallow, mainstream, a poser, an ersatz human being. It’s sad–I always imagined someone else would infect me with something–could I have infected Taggart? The sores on my tounge and Taggart’s debilitating flu-like ailment would seem to confirm some kind of disease transmission. Hmm. I really doubt we gave each other anything life-threatening, but who the hell knows. I gave him this URL so I kind of feel like I shouldn’t be talking about my fears of disease–it might drive him away–but what else is there to talk about–I am afraid of disease, and this journal is the textual manifestation of all my deepest fears, insecurities, and epiphanies. I started the book version of Requiem For A Dream–I know that this is a bad idea, but I might as well read it now while I have someone’s shoulder to cry on. Maybe I won’t even have that. Fuck. I should get back to reading. The text version elaborates a lot more on the character of Angel–the one drug dealer that Tyrone, Harry, and Marian are always on the phone with in the movie. Well, I’m kind of more awake now, I’m going to go back to reading. Jared is reading Tales of Ordinary Madness, by Charles Bukowski. He says it’s good. Perhaps I’ll read it one day. Well, back to the grindstone. Oh, Taggart called this morning, he’s really sick–but it’s his own fault. Smoking really fucks up your lungs, and he smokes like two packs a day. So poo on him, and he’d better not blame me for his prolonged convalescence.
I just realized I love the word oubliette. I think that’s what I’m going to call the new version of my site:Oubliette. I need some oubliettes–god. I need to forget about everything–but maybe I should remember…hmm…
Random cool site:
http://iabervon.org/~rachel/
I thought this was interesting:
“By dictionary definition, oubliette means “to forget” or “a dungeon with an opening at the top”. Th most common use for oubliette is “a place where you put people or things to forget about them”. Each of us has an inner oubliette deep down in the core of our soul where we have put our memories, pain, and happiness into.”
Kind of like the “cellar” in The Talented Mr. Ripley (Ripley is my favorite character, out of all the characters in every movie I’ve seen)
