ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"In this house of cards / we're all holding hearts and spades\" - Thursday "The wind blows and wire taps on the flagpole, accentuating each of my steps as I walk away, making it all so cinematic, like a foreign fucking film and I've never felt this low before." That's a passage that I archived from one of my paper journals. You remember those, right? The bound strips of thin wood that you smear ink or graphite on in an attempt to leave a stain? I remember the background story: I was walking away from her hotel room, we'd just had our last roll in the hay before she boarded a plane to jet away to Dallas forever. It was over; it was fun, not too serious, not too deep, not shallow at all, but over. And with each step, the wire would rap against the pole. pang! [step] pang! [step] But, really; "and I've never felt this low before"? Give me a fucking break. It's all been done. If you've ever felt lonely, R.E.M. has sung a song for you. If you've felt useless, Stabbing Westward sang a song for you. If you've been empty, Hum sang for you. If you got angry, fifteen or sixteen alternayouth bands lined up to sing your words, Jackson Pollock turned your profanity into paint and flung it on a canvas, Andy Warhol stuck a clothing hanger up his ass, shit on a piece of paper, and sold it for four thousand dollars and John Waters made another film... all for you. It's all been done. The Barenaked Ladies even wrote a song about it. So, you've never [verb]ed that [adjective] before? Well, I have. Teresa has. Bo, Becki, Tenille, they all have. Someone we don't know, sitting in some shithole apartment in some shithole corner of the world, the desperation of which we couldn't possibly fathom, their face in their hands, crying the anguished tears of those in solace, they have. So shut up, drink your coffee or your tea or your mocha-frappa-lopsa-opsa-lotta-crappiata or whatever it is you shove in your face to fuel your protesting body and keep it to yourself. If I give you a penny for your thoughts and you give me your two cents, I profit from the deal. But, if you're on Diaryland, you're giving it out for free, so I can keep my penny. However, I'll front you the penny. So, send me a check or tape a penny to a piece of paper telling me to go fuck myself or whatever you want to see. There's, what? Fifty? A hundred thousand members on Diaryland? With all those pennys I could, literally, cash in on your pain and emptiness. And I promise, swear, cross my heart and hope to die, give you my word that I'll use that money to buy something nice. Something that I'll enjoy. Something that will make me smile, so at least someone can come out on top of all this. Please send checks or change, along with correspondence, locks of hair, death threats, ransom notes, kiss-offs, or odes of adoration to: "Your Mother Left Her Panties at My House Again" c/o Eric McClanahan 4951 34th St. San Diego, CA 92116 manuscripts will not be returned. please allow 1 to 2 weeks for reply. Spread the word / Shake the disease 5:07 a.m. - 2003-12-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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