Julie's roommates are moving back to Spokane on monday, and Julie will be moving out to Olympia in the next few months or something. That should make Le'a happy, I think. It also means no more rides (or implications of rides) anywhere, until one of us trusted folk gets a car. Us trusted folk include Kris and Brian and Me and Brandon. If one of us is driving, then I can ride in security, confident that no polluting ass-culture is influencing our choice of activities. Julie would say I'm being closed minded. I know she only says that because she's unsure of exactly why it is she does anything anyway. Sometimes your mind needs to be closed in order to hang on to what little shreds of identity we are allowed to have. Besides, there's a difference between accepting other people's ideas and disregarding your own. Come on. It's the difference between watching the fish and breathing the water.

In the interest of holding onto identity, I stay away from drugs. I don't believe that everyone who smokes weed or crack or whatever you're having today turns into the stereotypical junkie persona for that drug. I do believe that the drugs have an affect on your personality. Don't tell me that smoking weed is harmless, unless you consider becoming more apathetic a good thing. If I get more slackerly, I want to do it myself. I couldn't trade away something like my motivation, not for social acceptance, not for short term contentment. If there's anything I wish I had more of, it's the drive to do things. Well-weed- doesn't-necessarily -kill-your -motivation! Maybe not. Whether it's the atmosphere, or the habits that form, or just the mind-set; I don't want any of it. I don't think any less of people because they take the occasional hit. Too bad that same fucking courtesy is almost never reciprocated.

Oh, so what about smoking cigarettes? Huh. Go ahead. Something else will probably kill you first anyway. Stinking in public and being unhealthy is acceptable in this case. A similiar habit would be shitting in your pants, just for the pleasure, just to have something to do, just because you've been doing it for years. And after a while, you don't even really get anything out of it anymore. Quitting is too hard, you've been tricked. Now you're going to shit your pants for the rest of your life.

Whoo, that was pretty rude. Fuck you fuck you fuck you for EVEN THINKING that I would apologize.

That would be the canonical response to failure. "It doesn't matter." Well, no wonder you sucked, it didn't matter to you. What were you doing it for, glory? Fuuuck.

This is good. I'm writing faster than I'm repressing. I could still pick up the mouse, block select, and then scour. I defeat me in single combat. I keep going instead. I have to hurry if I want to light today up before I fall asleep. This is enough, I can leave now.

My last words will be about r. Zach, a guy who kind of reminds me of Brian. He's out there, talking ten feet tall, knowing the secrets of the soul and the universe. I think he's maybe a little more melodramatic than your typical Thespian. Nah. Not even a little. Anyway, I usually read his stuff and get mild amusement out of his attempts to hide himself by distracting people, showing them the BIG SECRETS OF ZACH. They're the kind of thing you find in astrology books and OMNI magazine, pop-psychospirituality. I liked his moon-robot story, though. It resonates with a guilt that I torture myself with every once in a while, usually in a dream. Oh yeah, that's the other recurring dream I have. It has to do with an intelligent piece of technology that dies due to my negligence. It's last act is to preserve my life. Kind of typical after-school-special material, but it sticks in me for some reason. It probably is responsible for my affinity with computers, I've been having that dream since April 1981. I remember the first one, moving into the new house. No one said I was any deeper than a flour tortilla.