God Save The Bean
2001-05-30 - 10:19 a.m.
Literally, I have no idea what happened yesterday. I didn�t post, so I can�t find out, and my short-term-memory just hasn�t been complete since that peanut-butter and pickle sandwich several years ago.
I walked into the school library and ordered �the usual�. Very good service there, at the library. I especially enjoy leaving a beefy tip in addition to my due fees for the waitresses [note: all the �librarians� (book waitresses) that I know are extremely attractive]. It�s all in the smile; that decides if I tip 20% er 50%.
Sidenote: e-mail from Ms. Freeman is always welcome/appreciated.
A couple more reasons to apply to last night�s capade [like an escapade, minus the precedence of the �S-like� curvature, or like the ice-capades, without the ice]: Twenty-one. Because [even though it�s been five months] I still really don�t have a reason for why she broke up with me. Twenty-two. While I�m at it, a reason for why I feel so gawd-damned out of place on this planet wouldn�t hurt.
Recently, there occurred a strange capade with this girl (elliemae.diaryland.com) who had said that all guys are asses and told a select group (those with certain names) to fuck off. The whole thing is on her site, and quite humorous, as farr as misunderstandings go. We�re all friendlyish to each other now.
Related Sidenote: Why do people put things in their diaries that they don�t mean, even whilst they are writing it? I could understand if you thought one thing, wrote about it, and changed your mind later...but writing something that you don�t mean at all just doesn�t make sense to me. I try to mean everything I write here, even if I don�t believe it.
At Archibald�s request, I have decided to work through the reasons from the former entry, and rationalize the hell out of them until they are no longer problems in my life. Here goes (feel free to refer back to the former entry to see what I�m talking about, because I didn�t re-include them here):
One. Time heals all wounds. Even if it takes three years, I will eventually have a �tele� of my own. I can even runn up my own phonebills and call up those persons in a level-five secuity prison, the ones that have already used their �one phone call� and are dying to talk to anyone �on the outside�. Two. I understand that this place is making me siC, without anything to do and all...but in less than two weeks I will have graduated, and can forget all about it. Three and Four. Hmm, a complicated one to express...undoubtably, you will eventually be tipped off that you are living in the present. Besides, if the world is to crumble in the future for something you did in the present, than the world would have crumbled in the past of the future of the future, and thus everything is still going according to The Plan. Five. That�s right, I didn�t get anything accomplished this weekend...but there was nothing that needed to be accomplished. Take advantage of available time, because it gets rarer after graduation. Six. For the next three years, I don�t even have to spend Christmas with �em, if�n I don�t want to. But I should prubly send them an e-mail once every year er so, just so that they know I�m alive. Seven. No comment...you 85% lying saC of shyt. Eight. Serial mice are not unlike serial killers...sporadic, violent, and stubborn. But that�s another one of those things that I only have to deal with for a week-and-a-half. Nine. Once you start down the dark path...You have an alarm clock. Use it. Get back into the habit of doing pushups every morning, and shave that head, because you�re starting to look like a Mr. Scruff...or else damn yoursleves to the werld of the lazy. Ten. I have all the muscles required for smiling...I can smile whenever I wish. I would guess that the real problem here is a lack of something to smile about...And as for that, I should rank �getting a life� as a slightly higher priority. Live a little...even *gasp* bend my knees, on occasion. Eleven. As said in this diary before, those who care will be there. I�m still in contact with all my favourite persons, even after moving few hundred miles away. In Massachusetts, I�ll just be a few hundred miles distant in the other direction. Twelve. In life, we take risks [otherwise, we wouldn�t be Alive]. I�ll have to accept the fact that other people take risks as well as myselves, and that risks can be dangerous [for a risk without danger wouldn�t be a risk at all]. Jen took a risk in not wearing her seatbelt, in choosing the friends that she was riding with...in going to the concert that she was coming back from. Sometimes, you have to roll snake-eyes. Otherwise, it wouldn�t be a gamble. Thirteen. I should just stop being a bitch to her. Maybe she�s not the person I think she is. Dropp sum expectations...Thirteen (the second one). Maybe it doesn�t matter. You can�t say for sure that it does or it doesn�t. Fourteen. This would be under that whole �get a life� category. Some of those things I wouldn�t want to have done, after doing them, so there�s no real point in doing them the first time. Fifteen. I wold recommend getting blood first. Sixteen. Of course some of them wouldn�t notice, because no one in my family would know who to contact (not like they�d even think about it anyhow). The people in Pittsfield-area prubly wouldn�t find out for a month, at which time Sarah would have a randum encounter with Mitch and the news would spread. The answer to this time limit is the solution to the problem. A problem solved is not a problem...if there�s no problem, then there�s nothing to complain about. Seventeen. Mitch is in a band. My little sister has a semi-band. I�m not part of either of these projects because I have no knowledge about music. Music was a synonym for pain for the first chunk of my �life�. So, maybe I should start at the root, and pick up some music theory. Eighteen. I dunno what to think about this one...it�ll all turn out in the end. I just have to trust me on this one. Nineteen. Yepp, that�s a possibility. It�s also a possibility that you�re one of those shrunken-head pigmies from Madagascar, with your bulbous head and all. Twenty. Once again, I have the muscles required for smiling. In the same manner, I have the muscles required for expressionlessness. It is my decision to use whichever one I use. Twenty-one. Easy. Ask her or forget it. Twenty-two. Hey, wouldn�t you know, that used to be my favourite number.
