4:39p.m. - 2004-06-11
Destructo-gram
Ben, I'd said I'd name the title for you. Next time. Today is too much, but I am consistantly amazed and exhilerated at the wealth of stupid things we can laugh about. And I absolutely refuse to believe that you're 21 already. Weren't you 15 just a few days ago?

Kris, I'm considering calling your phone and telling it my name is Starla so I can get through. I'm sad and lonely and blue and feel like I'm no longer your favorite.

Twin, I've decided not to call you Dunstan. It means nothing to me and I kept calling you Twin anyway so there.

I'm not sure if my sadness is my own. I've known this feeling was coming, I always start thinking abstractly beforehand like some sort of drug-addled hippie philosopher. "What is real? Is this the real world? Am I real? Why?" But it seems to have overflown its banks and is flooding other people, too. I feel so much hurt it's crippling, eroding like typhoon waves. My dear ones! It's killing that I can't take your sorrow and pain away and make you well. I hate my powerlessness at being unable to bring back loved ones, cure disease, soothe the mind and heal the spirit.

It's like turning into Hyde. Normally, I like being a living contradiction. I like my cheerful, sunny bubble-headedness because it's tempered by my brooding, walk-the-moors and read Kafka self. Maybe I've just been spending too much time as Dr. Jeckyll. Now that Hyde's back, the hair-shirt's alien unfamiliarity is chafing. Maybe they're both competing for space. Hell, tonight I'm drawn in two different directions, go out and raise seven intense kinds of hell (this will involve serious quantities of tequila or jaeger)or stay in and cuddle with the Chach-pup. Sigh.

I hate this boiling anger. It's not even the good fierce singing boldness that I love. It's a thick drowning mudflowing suffocating...

*fcuck*

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