4 double O - 03.24.03 - 11:48 pm
Look!

OK, so last night? When I said that this entry would be #300? I meant 400.

But you knew that already, right? Right.

So this is the four hundredth entry in this journal. I could probably get all deep and shit about what has happened in the span of time it took me to write four hundred entries, but I really don't feel like it. I mean, the link to the archives is to your left so if you're dying to know what happened in December of 2001, you can just go read.

I will ramble, instead.

I hate having an idea for a story but am too tired to actually write it. This makes me feel like I'm putting my well being above art. And that's just fucked, y'all.

You know what I think are some of the most romantic lyrics ever written? From Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band's Thunder Road- "You ain't a beauty, but hey, you're all right. And that's all right with me." When I shared this with my mother, she sighed and said "Oh, Molly." But, dude, it just makes me melt.

The beach would be very good right now. So would some camping. Camping on the beach would be fucking orgasmic.

Hint, hint.

I can't even think about boys anymore without my mind interjecting "We are at war" every thirty seconds. If my mind's not careful, I'm going to remove all its good bits with a spoon.

I'm worried about my old bear dog. She'll be fourteen this year. Big dogs, especially big dogs who are half German Shepard, aren't supposed to get that old. It kills me that, one day, she won't be around.

Happy! Who's happy? C'mon, let's all be fucking happy together.

I was looking through a bunch of old pictures today and I found a shitload from summer camp. I even found a stack from my second year there. I was nine and, nope, not really all that cute. But that's OK. It's weird how much you can remember from just looking at one image of one split second. Like, there's this one of me and my best friend in our cabin. We're sitting on the top bunk and laughing over something in a notebook. Ladies and gentlemen, that picture captured the first ever angry letter to Jerkface. It took my best friend and I about ten minutes to write and, surprisingly, there were very few cuss words. In fact, I think we were laughing because we were trying to find good ways to work more swears into the body of letter. I was either twelve or thirteen. I can't tell. And I never gave it to him, for the record. I don't even know where it is right now, but you can bet your ass I still have it somewhere. Like I would actually throw something out. Christ.

Hey, did you know that we are at war?

For the past month, every single night, there has been a mockingbird sitting in the pine tree outside the kitchen window, just singing its little heart out. All night long, too. Sometimes I whistle at it and it whistles back. This goes one for a long time and it makes me happy.

I have letters to write.

<<< TOP >>>

Forever 23, my ass - 01.25.06

P-Nutz - 01.20.06

My nose hurts - 01.16.06

And really bad eggs - 01.13.06

I ain't no Alex Trebek - 01.11.06