I SIT HERE AND THINK
October 15, 2004

I want to update my journal... but what the fuck do I update about? Do I update on how I may or may not have a boyfriend again? Or do I update about the meaningless online porn viewing I have been participating in? Who the fuck knows... cares.... reads.... or what.... I know I don't.

I got paid today, but I am still fucking poor... but I have no one else to blame for my debt other than my own self. Too many trips... to the mall... across the the country... to the gas station. They all piled up into neatly sorted credit card statements, now tucked away in my filing cabinet collecting more than dust, but interest. I fucking HATE being in debt. But as I try and try and try to get out, I feel like I keep sliding back down into Dante's pits... passing levels only known by Hitler and his cronies. Yeah yeah.... Hitler and I have nothing in common except a long lost German heritage, but we all sin... in some way... according to the "good" book... now on sale at your local Wal-Mart.

Am I complaining here? No. Do I fucking care if you fucking comment or fucking read this fucking idiotic post before you climb into your car... jack off to porn... or eat a nice breakfast complete with grits and country ham and pancakes... you had better wash it down with some Grade A Florida orange juice because that shit is going cost a bundle as soon as we realize that all the citrus crops in the Sunshine State were wiped out by Ivan and Francis and.... so many fucking hurricanes I forget which ones hit America's appendix of a state... after all it just hangs there...

I haven't had sex... let me restate that in plain old fag queer homo gay language for you men boys twinks... I have not been fucked in my tight ass in a long time. Why? Blame it on the paxil or the job... or the lack of sleep... or my jacking off too much... or not enough. I am in a rut larger than the good ol' Grand Canyon out West... but this rut has been digging itself for years now, especially after college... or high school... or grade school. Who the fuck knows? Which by the way, my second grade teacher is STILL missing. She is probably dead... poor thing. Mrs. Lynn. She was a good teacher. I didn't care for her sons or her husband all that much though... then again big burly football guys never sit sit well with me... unless they were fucking queer and I was able to sit on their cock. I hope she is ok... but let's be real. She's been missing for 2 weeks now in the deserts of New Mexico. I miss second grade.

So.... what the fuck do I do on this fucking payday Friday after I get home... sit on the couch and laugh my ass off to the Blanche and Dorothy and the lovable Rose? And don't forget Ma. I forget her name, although I watch that fucking lame ass pansy show all the time. She tells it like it is. "Picture it. Sicily. 1928." I wasn't born yet bitch! I can't picture fuck unless I was there! God-damn you have some nerve asking me to do something like that!

So I sit here and think about getting fucked... at home... in some remote highway rest stop.... or in the gym shower. I sit here and think about my fucking finances and how I wish I could buy things NOT on clearance for once. I sit here and wonder why the fuck I have never been to the spot... the exact fucking spot... where my father's unprotected head met the concrete and his life passed from this one to the next... and mine was changed. I sit here staring at the clouds and the grass and notice I am getting older... "fatter".... and wiser... in ways that I didn't think I would. I sit here and think... and write... and think... and write... and I don't give a flying fuck. Strange thing too, I am actually in a good mood.