I really don't know what will become of her and Kris. Kris is just way too flaky to maintain a long distance relationship with anyone else. Le'a, however, is obsessed enough to keep it alive despite him. Today we went to visit an old friend from Hawaii, Jen. Jen is 19, very thin, and has long straight reddish hair. She is friendly within the same crowd that was most friendly towards the band in Hawaii. She lives in Washington, but we hadn't visited her at all until now. We chatted, promised to call more often, and left to take the ferry back to Seattle. Oops. The ferry Le'a had planned to catch back only runs on Sunday. This meant that we would not get back in time to do anything before she had to pack her things and go to sleep. She got pretty bent out of shape about this, because it meant she would only be with Kris for a short while before she had to prepare for her early flight. I got her a cookie at Subway, which cheered her up a great deal more than it should have. I think her blood sugar was low.

Dear old Gus seems to be a bit unsettled because his popularity is such that he is suffering the symptoms of a celebrity. I don't feel so great reading that, because that is a familiar refrain that begins the death cycle of an online journal. Somehow, though, I think Gus is different. I think he is the type of person who can be well known without cracking. Time will tell. Everything ends eventually. This log file. It will be ended by indifference, fear, or the death of the author. I wonder which one? Actually, I think the less I care about who reads it, the better I like what I write in it. Indifference and fear would be the two poles of awareness that you need to balance in order to get anything done. Too indifferent, even you don't care, and you stop doing it (or, you just dont care enough). Too fearful, you stop because of who is watching (maybe even your own hypercritical eye).

I hunger for some sort of food. Anything but chicken. Blech. Greasy, stringy chicken. I couldn't eat chicken for money right now. And I don't want sugar waters either. Sometime during the day today I stopped tasting soda and started tasting polluted water. The green plastic bottles remind me of hefty garbage bags. The colorful labels remind me of hazmat warning signs. The UPC code reminds me of a parallel life in which I have just destroyed a power grid to assist my mutated cohorts attempt at revolution.

My modem sits on Nerve, cylon visor glaring connection status at me. It is stolen. I never paid a cent for this modem, and I would have killed for it a decade ago. The manufacturer was compensated for its production; it came from a group of retirees loaned to a mutinous tech crew to help soothe hard feelings. I never gave it back, and its serial number was lost in a flurry of knowledge-killing beauracracy.

Hey, let's watch reality filtered through text! Reality filtered through memory is odd enough. Sometimes I remember things that I'm SURE never happened, things that never COULD have happened. Places and objects which definately do not exist in this world. If my memory of this past year were erased and the only record I had was this log, I'd have a pretty skewed image of the period. I would have trouble telling when I was being sarcastic. Well, not usually. There are times, though, when I dupe myself. Garden variety sarcasm is so predictably common, I hesitate at the beginning of each sentence.

It's not funny anymore! Shut up! Shut up! I can't even pretend I'm laughing. I can't even laugh at how stupid you seem. I can't even laugh at myself for being so stubbornly un-fun. You're masking the real joke, you're smothering any trace of originality or thought that might have arced out of this interaction. You're a broken record, you're an endless loop. You're triple tap delay with wide LFO time control. Stop talking to myself! Stop!

No! Not the hand puppets! Reer rar rar rar, aiyyy, stop moving me around so much I'm-a tired! *pop!* You're out of your mind! The left hand can't do anything right! Get me my glove damn you!

Note to self: Make sure hands do not develop distinct and individual 'voices' or personalities. Remember D-boy and Mr. Eff.

I would have been sad. I might yet be sad. I'm just not sad right now.

Note to self: Call Jen.

Other Note: Stop writing like your journal has a black background.