the desert doesn't hate the rain, it just lacks it. a masochist only misses pain until it gets a chance to inflict it upon itself, which for any competent masochist, will not be too long. and again doesn't rhyme with either. you're mortifyingly heedless.

remember that day after you introduced me to lois the pie queen when i found out that jessie died after all that sad drama w/ phillip's 'houseguest' and you decided to walk me to work? you tried to cheer me up by telling me the borges story of the library where all books have already been written and i got really upset, attempting to link your retelling of the story with your views on kant which i furiously contested. i was so sad and freaked out and i wish i could take the whole parking lot scene back. i wish we would have just gone on telegraph. again, you were right, i was wrong for you. but you're still the best thing i ever had and now everybody knows it. so if i evite you to friendster.com can we like, um be friends? bsides i need files fr. cabinet 4 deutsche class. despite the fact that soren k. says irony is a way of life in the dog kennel of human existence, theres a closet sentimentalist buried under all those layers of irony. anyway rain, pain and again rhythme beautifully and "and again doesnt rhythme with either" is a sentence fragment and you spelled rhythme wrong. you're excruciatingly fragile.

Ahh, look how we grow. I remember that day, but it was a day long before the fateful one on which I deconstructed the skillful wrath of the patronizeguilttripsweetheartapologysnipe. The problem, my something, is that in your case all the charm goes out once the mystery departs. again rhymes with the rest on paper alone. It is the poetry of a deaf mute. Soon you must find someone to talk to, and when you do, talk to them with a smile and an ear, and lets let Kierkegaard speak for himself. rhythme is a compellingly stupid word. Gone are the days when our inconsistencies can be played off as creativity. The poetry slam has left, but the slammers remain, grasping onto the moments when their incompetence was dazzling. Who's nostalgic now? Who's ironic? It ain't me, babe. But all is forgotten when we smile at one another, and god forsake a world in which two people must wholeheartedly agree in order to interact. This is the sad fantasy of Long Island hardcore kids and Oakland art school knitters. So if you want to be friends, or if you want your shit back, either or both can be accomplished with a phone call any time before the bars close. Watch the fragments abound. Watch, watch. When it all comes down, I still check up, and that I must and will and hereby admit. Whether it's for information orammunition seems unimportant. Let's not fight, cuz I might win, and no one wants that. Lets just forget I ever quoted Seven Mary Three at you. Let's be college friends. Let's be pleasant exes. Let's be obedient comrades of our demographic. Let's see.

Oh yeah, and you're brazenly uncircumspect.

its hard to be friends when the nicest things that can be said are: "The problem, my something, is that in your case all the charm goes out once the mystery departs." and "I deconstructed the skillful wrath of the patronizeguilttripsweetheartapologysnipe." death mutes, much like gnomes, are people too and people dont need friends like these.

Don't make me laugh. The things I say are true, and the appeal for friendship is merely per your request. This is the ultimate joke, isn't it. It's the bloggiest folks who have to look at themselves on paper, or at least in text. And they don't like it one bit. So revise, dear, revise. But the simple fact is that I still get these messages at two in the morning, and I simply was suggesting a more constructive method. Oh my God indeed. Maybe those who commit themselves to text should consider the consequences. Or maybe I should stop being such an asshole. But either way, the nicest thing I said was, in fact, "When it all comes down, I still check up, and that I must and will and hereby admit." With friends like you, who needs punching bags. Don't cry. This is the new romance.

I'm sorry.

this is getting fun. see what working together produces? sadist-masochist, sadist-masochist, sadist-masochist...

oh wait, are you responding cuz arthur was complimentary and you think it underserved? let me assure you, it was due to his charming yet ultimately troubled fascination w/ 30+s which got him kicked out of my coworker's party. there will be confession and confrontation @ aimees i forsee. i think it strange that you would have never been told of your darling bird and udder people's blogs if not for zoe being the head of robotmedia and i being unable to hold my liquor. and i would have never found the bird either if it werent for chris garcia and my former hatred of max. funny how things work itself out, this business.

Oh hey, look at this. Why do I think you're an idiot, Jesse? I used to know. But yes, now I'm getting all confused as if I was the idiot. I'm not sure how Tag got into this, this fun, I'm not sure what I referred to, which is so funny because I referred to Tag on another charming page and was taken to be talking of a tiny filipino. Perhaps my writing is unclear. Perhaps Tag's is, or perhaps your brain is unclear, because I thought he said you sounded like a dictionary, and made him want to expell fluids from both ends, which is basically what I was saying in the first place, though all evidence of that is gone now thanks to both you and me. If you are happy to be a dictionary, I'm happy for you. All that information, there for no other reason than the fact that it is known, strung together with no thematic cohesion or relevance until it is exhausted. I'm don't take issue anymore; I didn't realize this was your goal.

I do, however, take issue with your consistently reprehensible argumentation, rife with obfuscation, deception, and crass attempts at slander. Don't be a liar. Don't be manipulative. It's only your diary. Don't say you learned of the bird from someone, when that is only how you learned it existed, and then you asked Tag in my presence for the address, which he refused to divulge, after which you read the address of the site from the previously referenced piece of paper submitted to the godforsaken Zoe (who, solely by the way, you continue to talk shit about to everyone you know and then go hang out with, becuase with friends like me, who can decide who their friends are? Obviously not you). But I love the bird, it is writing worth writing, which is a welcome change. I just come here to fight, because I'm small and petty and, as you astutely noted, somewhat of a verbal sadist. And I do not boast the bird; it is not my child. Lord knows Tag doesn't like me nearly as much as I like him, which is a dynamic I'm used to. I'm okay with that. I am the kind of person who stands in the third row, and you are the kind that stares at the backs of the heads of the rock band, so everyone can see that you're a fan. I don't need to convince myself that if I met my favorite bands on the street, they would like me. I hope this isn't getting too abstract. I simply mean to say three things. You're rhetoric is manipulative and base, your writing is obtuse, stale, and devoid of all grace, and you lie to your diary, which amazes even me. That's all. It doesn't mean I don't like you. Randy asked me why people on these sites take everything so personally. I didn't have an answer. I still don't. If you're gonna put your diary on the internet, I suppose it doesn't matter how I got into the club, does it. If you hadn't personally addressed me in this now neutered entry, I wouldn't have responded. But now that we're here, lets just put it all on the table. Why not? Record's over.

who da hell said this was my diary? if you can read me like the pages of a book then why would you think that? now go away before i pelt you w/ bananas. no more ok! yes yes i suck you are less sucky other people are completely above this fray and better human beings. between grief and nothing i choose nothing!