What always hurts more than anything else is all the empty time. I'm tired of being pulled through time with no experiences to show for it. That's what always eventually causes me to attempt something I shouldn't attempt. What should I attempt this time?

Uh ... what? This thing still exists? I haven't kept any kind of journal in a very long time. I don't see the point anymore. I don't think anybody gives a fuck if I post here or not either. So I'm really bored tonight and killing some time ... I need to get a life.

Two churches (I'm guessing on the same street) have an argument via church signs about animals going to heaven.

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People seem to think that what you write about reveals to people who you really are. I think this is true to an extent but isn't a rule. People who write horror or violent stories shouldn't be assumed to be dark or scary people. Assume that person has a dark side, sure, but who doesn't?
Years back my mother visited a college friend of hers and brought back a small stack of christian fiction that the friend had written. This being when I was a christian myself, I read them all and later my mom asked me what I thought of them. Instead of telling her what I thought of the writing (since it sort of sucked) I told her what I thought her friend was like. My mom sat and looked at me slack-jawed and kept saying she couldn't believe I could know all that just from reading the books. My point: yes, you can tell a lot about a person from their writing. But.
Before I ever read a book by Stephen King I looked at pictures of him and thought he looked creepy as hell. After I became familiar with his work (I think he's kind of a hack) I was surprised to find that he is a very playful writer who loves to write about tight-knit communities and close friends. I'm convinced he would be a pleasant and probably kind person to meet.
I watched an interview with the author of Lolita on youtube and he was forced to answer the question of whether it was autobiographical in any way. In other words, whether he is a pedophile. I felt for him. Writers write about that which they find interesting or know will make an edgy story. That's what makes a page-turner.
Anyway. This whole rant is just about me being a little exhausted of hiding my writing because I know people will from then on look at me as if I might be dangerous.
The End

I'm always keeping an eye out for it when I meet anyone. Are they? Are they not? Always not. I'd like to be friends anyway, with almost anyone. But the disappointment when someone I thought might be isn't ... well it's a hollow feeling.
The only person I ever met who was I now realize probably wasn't really. I'm realizing that now for the first time. Now that it's been almost a year and a half and I might even be over her (maybe). It's pretty horrific to think that she wasn't like me at all. She was just another one of them. Love is blind. She did come pretty close though didn't she? Was she? Always so much despair surrounding the thought that I'll never see or speak to her again. I feel like now that the memories are so faded, how can I ever know? I just want to hang on to the idea that I'm not alone.
There are still the saved IM conversations. It's so awful to read them though. I don't know if I could stand it. They kill me. The last time I read a little bit of them I was hit with this huge wow no wonder I loved her! No wonder I can't get over it! ... I don't think I should read them ... I wish I didn't care anymore but it matters whether she was or not. If there is one other than there are more. Damn it.

A question  for anybody who actually reads this junk. I found an add on craigslist for a job/apt as housekeeper. The apartment would be free along with utilities in exchange for work as a housekeeper. Anyway the people I talked to on the phone seem very nice and friendly and I'm going to interview with them on thursday.  Probably they will want to know all about me and one of the standard questions people ask single women my age is 'do you have a bf?' so do I shell out the standard 'no' and leave it at that or hit em with 'no I'm gay'? I'm not dating at all these days (intentionally) so its not like i might have to hide a gf from them or anything. Idk. I just want to decide beforehand what to say.

The streetlight outside the window, outside where people actually live, it's dim and dirty and it matches the light of the sunset. But what is a sunset when it's blocked out by trees? A contrast. I picture of what you do have and what I don't.
Some girl, she's never been loved properly and now she's being led along by another who may or may not be playing games. Yesterday Girl was determined to never be played with again and now, ever since last night, she's been carried away with what the kisses felt like. I don't know how to talk to a girl like that. She reminds me too much of my exes.
I can't watch a whole movie. I've lost my youth and with it my attention span. The key to being a loser is acceptance. Genuine apathy about bills, about loneliness, about the future. It's a peaceful existence. That's what people don't get. Or maybe I'm just a special kind of loser.

For me pet ownership is a paranoid experience. I don't actually like animals. I don't anthropomorphise them like most pet owners do. I appreciate their beauty and mystery and it ends there. I don't believe that they need names and I don't form emotional attachments. I own a bird and I like owning it because I appreciate not being the only thing alive in a room. I consider it a wonder of nature that I have so admiringly entrapped in my living room for my viewing pleasure. That is where the guilt comes in and the paranoia is related. I'm afraid I'm not feeding it right and it might get sick. I feel bad that I don't clean out the cage nearly often enough. I wonder if it regards me as an enemy. (This last item wouldn't matter except that it's a disapointing thought.) I worry that one day I will look into the cage to see a stiff and lifeless bird carcass and never know what I did wrong to kill the poor thing.
    I used to have a phobia of all animals. I couldn't understand their wordless thoughts and so I assumed they might have sinister intentions. Who's to say dogs aren't capable of trickery? Whose to say cats don't quietly dispise all human beings? I felt similarly about babies. I'm still pretty uneasy about babies.
    Back to the bird. It is odorless but it's a dirty pet. It flaps its wings in crazy fits now and then and sends fluff and powder all over the room. If it decides to have a flapping fit while I'm eating I have to go to another room to ensure that I don't end up with it in my mouth. It takes a few minutes to settle and then I have to dust everything. It likes to toss out the birdseed all over the table and carpet.  He's quiet when it comes to squawking unless he's angry about something. He gets mad if I come within a foot of the cage. But he'll make a clicking noise with his beak that makes me cringe and there's no way to make him stop doing it. I often think about giving him away to my mom but I can't admit defeat. I want to be able to house and care for a creature of nature and admire the evolutionary handiwork as I go about my daily life. I wonder how long I'll have him and if eventually I'll be so accustomed to having him around that I will form an emotional attachment.

I seem to be asking myself if crying is an option tonight. Does my current state merit a sob or two? Is just thinking about and feeling like crying enough and should I stop it there and suck it up?
The pain is slight. It's in my chest. Once every minute I say to myself (who is this Myself person?), so what? Move on. Tomorrow is a better day. I know that for sure.
There have been a few people in the last few days that have made me feel better and they don't even know it. Sometimes its just enough for somebody to say, me too! Or to mention something that I can relate to.
But still, the pain in my chest.  A good reason to get drunk tonight. Just let me get a little drunk tonight. It's not a big deal.
Really I just want to get high.

I was reading When You are Engulfed in Flames and my nose got runny. It's an event that is so repeated that I have a roll of toilet paper sitting on my coffee table for such occasions. I'm mindlessly blowing the watery snot out and when I remove my hands from my face the toilet paper is blown all over with blood.
Shock. What? I'm having a random nose bleed. Why? There is something wrong with my nose again and what did I do to deserve this? I want a functional body. I've come from being six years old looking up at towering and powerful adults who groan when they bend over and thinking to myself I'm never going to be like that to this dysfunctional hunk of meat I live inside of now at age 24. I'm already falling apart. My body has already been ravaged by the side effects of drugs that were supposedly designed to help me out and now I'm already desperate enough to go in for another "round of treatment" next month.
I go to the bathroom and stare at my nostrils in the mirror, waiting to see if more blood will trickle out. The blood on the toilet paper is so red and depressing and exciting and I drop it in the trash.
David Sedaris wrote When you are Engulfed in Flames. It's a good book.