outer-jessie's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- get away from me, kid, ya bother me I can be pretty. Someone come play with me. Like mysterious girls? I can be mysterious. Silly girls? I can do that. Come play with me. Come play with me. I will do what you want me to do. Sure, sure. That crap works on guys just fine, but it won't work on girls. And I can't ask them what they want me to do to make them want me, because they don't like that. I understand. I wouldn't like it either. I like, or I don't like. I can't be pestered into liking. I wish someone would like me straight out. Alack. Alas. Woe harpsichord amoeba smackdaddy o'flarety. This promises to be a fantastically crappy weekend, consisting of but one day. Work on Sunday, then an early bedtime Sunday night for an early awakening Monday morning. But I got an email from my one non-depressing high school friend today, and she sounds great, which is a big spirit up-lifter. Every body else from high school -- such downers. Here, let me go right ahead and ban them from my thoughts....Done. Woo, much better. So I got a note from her and we shall, I don't know, do something. It's two o'clock, and my mind has been turned into jelly from all the crap at work this week. I can leave in one hour. That is good. I will be back in one day. That is bad. Oh wait, we did this last time, didn't we? Sorry. I have but nine checks left for my Boston bank account. Just nine. Good thing I pay most of my bills by phone or electronically. Because I'll be dag nabbed if I'm going to buy a hundred checks for an account I only intend to use for two more months. There, that was mildly interesting, wasn't it? No? Yeah, you guys get the shaft because I write my entries almost exclusively from work. Work, where the mind turns to jelly and the body turns to putty, but not the fun kind of putty, the putty that's stuck in your rug. I wish I had a cookie right now. Ok, now here's a question for you: why is everybody crazy? Why is everyone crackers, man, off their fucking rockers, beyond the pale, short of a few essential neurological connections? I'm serious. Why the fuck is everyone nuts. All right. I'm going to go hang out with the Little Prince and Helena Handbasket. *that last bit didn't make any sense, so don't exhaust yourselves trying to analyze it* 1:40 p.m. - 2002-11-15 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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