The Dielectric Constant Of A Penguin
2001-05-28 - 10:54 p.m.
My internet explorer vaguely resembles blue and white scrambled eggs. This is all Norton�s fault, of course. Badd Norton. Go sit in a corner and play with other people�s pooters. I desperately need to find a virus that will re-mess up the things Norton has done...*pout*.
I played bugghouse for most of today. It�s very much like a four-person-blitz (five minutes per side) chess game. When one person looses a piece, it can be placed on their pair�s opponent�s side. No pawns in the first or last rows, and you can�t put someone in mate with a placed piece. Very addictive game.
I thought about suicide tonight. Something with an outlet, a spliced universal cable, and a �this place annoys me� note. Then I figured that the risk of the note catching on fire would be pretty high, and if the note weren�t there, it would loose the whole aesthetic quality factor. I eventually stopped thinking such things, because I was able to delusionize myself into thinking that I have some sort of future. Reasons for thinking this originally: One. I do not have a phone. Two. I�m tired of not being stimulated by people who are supposed to be the �best and brightest� of this state. Three and Four [this one spanns personal and global concerns]. It occurs to me that something slipped up in the past...someone didn�t get an e-mail, or I was walking around in the present-minus-five-seconds, and I didn�t trip over the stone on the left. Something, it seems, has gone all wrong, and the future will be to pay for my clumsyosity. If the future is messed up, why go through the agony of playing it through? Five. I feel as if I didn�t get anything accomplished this weekend, without having class and all. Six. I hate the majority of my family. Seven. I�m one of those people in my family I hate. Eight. My mouse is serial. Nine. My lazy ass slept in this morning. Ten. I haven�t smiled in a long, long time. Big and bright and toothful, convulsing with laughter. Eleven. Because I miss you. And you, and you. Twelve. Because I will miss Jen forever. Thirteen. Because I was a bitch to Lucy last night, and have been, farr, farr too many times. Thirteen. �None of this really matters� syndrome. Fourteen. I�m eighteen years old, and have yet to do half the things that a normal person has spent their life doing. I wanna drool on my pillow, and get smashed on screwdrivers until I can�t see. I wanna have had more than one official girlfriend, and really have had it mean something. I wanna take a prybar to a randum car in a parking lot. I wanna bleed. I wanna screw people and not care about them, pick fights, or even have a real birthday, with real cake. I want my eyes to stay one color. Fifteen. As previously mentioned, �I wanna bleed�. Sixteen. If value of a consumer is the composite of what they own; I live in America; and everyone in America is a consumer; I must be a consumer, but I have little...as a minimalist consumer, I am nothing. Sixteen. Just to see if I�d be missed. How long would it take them to notice? Some people just wouldn�t. Seventeen. This music sucks, and I don�t have the balls to start a garage band. Eighteen. My mother doesn�t eat. She�s been starving herself for nearly twenty years. That leaves a very poor image on the back of my eyes. Nineteen. There is the slightest possibility that I am one of those people that will think these thoughts for attention, even if only subconsciously [whatever a subconscious is]. Twenty. Because the whole time I�ve been writing this, I�ve had this fully apathetic expression on my face. And I can see it. Even without a mirror, I can see it. And I siCen me.
On a completely different note, I�ve been thinking about a tattoo. A joker on this shoulder, a biohazard on that one, angel wings covering the whole of my back, or a Japanese phrase �in memory of love� [the in �memory� in this case refers to the memory of a lost relative]. Just one, not all four. Maybe I�ll ask someone else what they think...but who knows, because I do that so rarely.
