ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ash Rain I fucking hate my useless fucking fingers. I typed like a madman for twenty minutes. TWENTY MINUTES!!!! Then I tapped a few wrong keys and POOF!!!! It was all gone. So here goes round two. (I'll try to recreate it in astounding detail): and we're back. for those of you just tuning in, our hero is lonely (terribly, terribly lonely), asocial, horny, malnourished, overworked, impoverished, intellectually starved, mentally fucked, and madly searching for a place to live. oh, and ugly. not in a conventional, elephant man way, but in an esoteric, picasso way. i finally did find a place to live, however, in the form of a house in Normal Heights with a guy that I work with at Borders and a complete stranger. Ashes are in the sky from a winefield on fire about a hundred miles north of here. I'm coralled at Lestat's, which is unusually busy tonight, since everyone knows that they have an extra hour to sleep tonight, they thought that they'd get a cup of coffee. A man told me that I was going to die soon. Actually, he said "You're about to die, dude." I really wanted to stop and talk to him. To ask him, "So, by 'about', do you mean like near future, like next couple of hours about, or like our time is a blink of an eye in the context of eternity, twenty or thirty years about?" He seemed whacked out on some drug or bottle so I imagine that his prophetic abilities might have been a bit diluted. I let it go, not that I didn't think about it. At the am/pm near my apartment, they have screen prints on all the windows of a spritely dude with an afro holding his hand out and staring in awe at the space above his palm. On each print, all the same guy, they have pasted a different object in his outstretched hand: a cup of coke, a football, a tube of nuts. In one of the prints, they've pasted a picture of a triple cheeseburger that they're selling for $1.29. This cheeseburger looks fantastic. I've eaten the food that they sell at am/pm. It's not good. There's really no way that it could ever be good. Even if they had that particular cheeseburger pictured in the window, which they don't, they'd never sell it to you. They'd put it on display in the Guggenheim. It's a fucking work of art. And, oddly enough, worthy of writing about in my online diary. all in all, my financial life is balancing out, but i'm getting lonelier and lonelier as the days pass. i'm so alone and i'm so tired of being so alone. i eat my meals alone, i smoke my cigarettes alone, i watch movies alone, i drink my coffee in these 24 hour coffee shops and write my stupid little thoughts alone. i hate this. i need someone to talk to. someone to listen to. someone to help me communicate with other people; to perpetuate the acquisition of friends. The good news is, working two jobs and finding a room for only $450 a month plus a third of some rather neglible bills, I actually have enough money to go home for Christmas. To see my friends, my real friends, the ones that understand me. Or will they? I've changed. Will they understand this new, lonelier, sadder, more jaded me? I can't wait to find out. 2:07 a.m. - 2003-10-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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