ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"I should play God / and shoot you myself!\" - Tool I'd like to tell you that right now I'm listening to Chevelle or Catherine Wheel or Tool or Pell-Mell or Mudvayne or Glenn Danzig's "Black Aria" or any myriad of great music that I'd like to be listening to right now, but sadly, I'm not. I'm not listening to anything but the horrid 80s music that plays here at Lestat's because I've lost my backpack. My backpack was less of an addendum and more a part of my body. It had the book that I was reading (and enjoying, mind you), Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer. It also contained the book that I was WRITING!!!!!!!! and some forty-odd pages into. "40-something pages? Big deal! You can rewrite that." NO I CAN'T!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You need to remember, I'm not like other people. I don't form thoughts like you "normies". I'll never, never be able to recapture the raw sense of discovery that I had scribbled in those first 47 pages. Never! It is gone. Forever. Also in the bag: my portable CD player, thirteen CDs, a camera with a half-way exposed roll of film (pictures that I will never see / pictures of things that mattered to me), a yellow legal pad with assorted writings, the relevance of which I can't recall, pens, lighter fluid, a tiny little composition notebook with poetry, phone numbers, assorted thoughts that I'll never have again, an extra set of headphones, assorted scraps of paper with phone numbers, keepsakes, and SHIT THAT WAS MINE!!!!!!!!! Can you gather that I'm upset? Because I am; I really, really am. Mostly, it's my fault. I got drunk. Unbelievably drunk. So drunk that I blacked out. So drunk that I don't remember my evening from a certain point. So drunk that I made an ass of myself. So drunk that I lost my fucking bag. However, I spent time in two places: the bar and the coffee shop. I've checked both of those places, and there has been no sign of the bag. That means that some worthless sack of shit, some ignorant speck of human existence, took my fucking bag. They picked up my bag and thought "Hey, check it out! A CD player! I could use one of those. Oh, what's this? Some CDs? Well, I've never heard of these bands and I'm sure there music will go over my head. Fuck, they're even home-burns so I can't sell them. Oh, well; they'll make wonderful frisbees. What's this? Henry Miller? Sounds like a stuffed-shirt to me. That's going in the trash. Oooh, a camera! I can take pictures of my wang! Bitchin'! Oh, and a manuscript. I bet the guy who started on this is going to miss it. Oh, well! Life's a bitch, and so am I!" FUCKSHITPISSHELLFUCKSHITPISSHELLFUCKSHITPISSHELL (as therapeutic as that was supposed to be, I don't feel any fucking better about this whole thing) 3:48 a.m. - 2004-01-09 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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