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Tuesday, Apr. 08, 2003 / 11:00 p.m. ~To Be Sung To the Tune Of "I'm a Wheel Watcher"...~ I'm a freak magnet. Always have been, nothing's changed. I think, in a way, I enjoy fending them off. I must. So, fine, they can't stay away, they just keep clicking. Must - Read - Joleen's - Diary. Must - Read. Must. And if this is your fixation, of course you have no life, and of course you are a freak. I've read this diary, it's not that interesting. Oh yeah, and it's even worse living it. BO RING. Why anyone would want to sit and waste her/his time clicking and skimming, because I know no one actually reads every word, that's cool, I get it, is beyond me. Way beyond me. Obsessions cannot be easily explained away. Nor fetishes. Mark used to go and on about me, how amazing I am, or fascinating, or captivating, or whatever shit he was dealing out at the moment, and like Nelson had said, he just wanted to get in my pants. He couldn't be a friend, he always wanted more, until it escalated, got out of control, and I had to tell him exactly how he made me feel. But he had a warped vision. He said my fingers are long and they're short. I have tiny hands. He didn't see me, he saw who he wanted me to be. He never got inside of me, I always kept him out, inside of me was not for him to see, it's mine, all mine. And I never chose him, I wanted him to be gay so we could be terrific friends, I hated that he wanted me, I HATED it. But he was wrong. There is no fascination here, nothing to look at here, step back, go back to your homes. You are wasting your time. What is your purpose? You want to force me into a corner? You want me to give up something I really love? You do, don't you? You use the Interweb for your own power, to boost your crumbling ego, you harass and torture and force people to lock up behind themselves, no one is safe from your disturbance. You exist to disrupt, here, where no one can see you, where you are intruding, like a burglar rifling through my things, rubbing my underwear against your face, trying on my jewelry, leaving behind your piss on the floor. Keep it up. It gives you a thrill. Click, click, click, you dream about me, you can't wait to read what I'll write next. You'll skim looking for clues, looking for mention of you, you'll sign the book, or send email, and get off doing it, and do you masturbate at the same time? Is this a big turn-on? You think I'm talking about you, don't you? You don't even know, but it's several freaks right now. You're not the only one. And you're freaks because you're drawn to me, you don't even know what brought you here, you don't know why you stay, except you get off on the discomfort you cause, you get off on my angst, you like to read about when I cry, don't you? You like to imagine what I look like, or maybe you search for photos, maybe you research me, maybe you spend hours looking in search engines. Fucking freak. And you'll come back. You're excited now, like the serial killer watching himself on the news. He's got the power now, hasn't he? Look, there I am, she's writing about me! I can't wait to see what she writes next! Will it be about ME? Or the war again, I'm tired of skimming those entries, and she's such a treasonous bitch anyway, no, I like when she writes about how much she hates menstruation, the bleeding, the knife tearing up her vagina, the pain, the suffering, she thinks she suffers, and she cries when she's sad, and she's alone and has only cats for friends. Pitiful fucking bitch. I think I'll click some more, I'll fuck with her stats, she gets off on the stats, she says so. Then I'll sign her guestbook again, and write about her on the haters web site, call her a bitch and a cunt and then I'll tell my online friends (because I have no real friends) to harass her too. This is good, this is so good. Got to click, has she written about me yet????? You people are fucking freaks. Why are you getting off on this crap? Why are you grabbing your crotch while you read about my pissy day at work? You sick fucks. Sick, sick fucks. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? Who've I met, really? In reality? Anyone? Are any of you even real? What is the fucking point? Fuck me. Fuck me. Torture me. Fuck me because you get off on it, you know you want to. This is what you want, isn't it? What's next? Find where I live, knock on my door in the middle of the night? What do you want? Go ahead, drag it out, click on this over and over and over, you know I'll be looking at the stats. You're sick. **Addendum to note that 'Vendy', aka 'j', aka 'T' is my stalker, someone to whom I've never written, nor spoken. This person is using IP 219.176.24.86, and other extensions, a dialup connection from Asia Pacific Network Information Centre. Nope, it's not too conclusive, I know, but he/she does not have a firm grip on the English language, or is playing games, and most likely both, along with possible mental challenges. I.E. mentally challenged. Very bizarre, very purposeful. He/she clicks on my diary several times a day, nearly every single day, from this link: greytanit.signmyguestbook.com. The one who used to click from Roadiepig's profile was weird too, and when I asked her to go away, she did, which was nice, if you think about it. I draw weird people to me, they flock... reminds me, there was a mourning dove outside my door this morning, it flew away when I opened the door. The mourning 'coo' sounded off, strange, not quite right, and I thought he was injured............ What is so intriguing about my diary? Who the fuck cares? Go read what she/he wrote in the guestbook, really, go read it, it's fucking bizarre. How can I just ignore that? Is it about "Korn"? And who the hell was "Korn"? I smell a conspiracy..... Wait, one more 'that reminds me', and I go to bed. This morning, at work, I gave Quincey a hug to welcome her back after her father's funeral, right? I wanted to be nice, I wanted to let her know I'm sorry she's had to deal with all the crap, right? She thanked me, I walked away, and realized I had her perfume on me! It was that horrible fragrance I accused of being sanitary napkin smell. That perfumed pad smell, that horrible cheap perfume smell, and I had it on me, all day! It's some sort of perfume, or cologne, not pads after all. No wonder so many women smell like it, of course it could be those pads too - go into a store and smell them, they're horrible. Dammit, one more 'that reminds me'..... Ever read Even Cowgirls Get the Blues? No? Okay. Yes? See what I mean? I met Tom Robbins, very groovy cat. Cost of the War in Iraq
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