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Tuesday, May. 21, 2002 / 1:23 p.m. ~GMAFB~ What day of the week was September 11, 2001? I hadn't realized I'd not remember that part, the day of the week. I remember exactly where I was when it happened. IT. But (no, this is not a Moby-less entry) I'm listening to "18" again, of course - actually, I woke with "Extreme Ways" stuck in my head so I had to listen as soon as I got to work - and I'm on Track 11, which, however coincidentally, is "Sunday (The Day Before My Birthday)". Moby's birthday is September 11th. Track #11. Was Sunday the day before his birthday? Suddenly I realized I don't remember what day it was, other than a week day, other than a beautiful, but highly unusual and memorable day, but for reasons other than what actual day it was. This song sticks in my head a lot too. The "Sunday was a bright day� yesterday�", and the "�la, la, la, la, la, la, la, laaa�" Mmmmmm� Jon wrote that he finds email communication to be "imprecise" and "widely interpretive". I wrote back, "Huh?!". Maybe he feels he cannot express himself adequately, but I do just fine, thanks. He hasn't heard that cell phone voyeurs exist, and if they do, he claims not to mind. So, thus ends our communication. I remember when this happened with Crystal. I'd write to her and she'd call me. I'd let the machine answer, I'd write her, she'd call. And Sandy� he prefers to call, so he called and called and called. And I wrote, said, You know, you sure do call a lot. Lulu is on the phone all day, her kids call, she calls them, her husband calls, her mom calls, she calls them, she conducts all her personal business, like it's her little private office across the carpet there. I asked her once, "What would you do if you had a job wherein you could not use a phone?" She could barely answer, could barely fathom such a situation, said she simply wouldn't have that job. I see. Jon only has a cell phone. That's it. When we were on the phone last Thursday we were disconnected, twice. He faded in and out, I could barely hear him, and he was probing me, asking me about my lack of happiness in life, my hatred of human beings, it was insane. I'm not having that conversation with someone on a fucking cell phone, much less someone I don't even know - I'd said, "What are you, a fucking therapist?". Dear Jon, buh bye. And by the way, I was actually trying to hook up with your friend, don't forget that. I was reading diaries last night, as I do almost every night, just a few favorites, and I realized almost everyone maintains a certain distance. They tell their stories, and they entertain, but few feel like real diaries, few express real emotion or feeling. They're more like� little newspaper columns. Not that I'm disappointed, but sometimes I wish other people wrote as much of themselves as I do, or that I did it less. I expose so much of me here, and at times I back up and see it for what it is� fucking INSANE! Okay then. I changed an address earlier for a guy named Vincent Perez. Just like the studly movie actor with whom I was so in lust for so many years. I didn't even notice until we were off the phone, because he was pissy and I was angry with him for trying to ruin my day. We hung up and I wrote his name and social on a purple mini post-it note, and said, "Huh. Vincent Perez. Will ya look at that?", to myself of course. (Oh, never mind, I just looked and it was Victor, not Vincent) So why is it that when someone pisses me off, or hurts my feelings, which is usually both, a friend, or co-worker, and I react, well, that person then won't talk to me or even look at me for days? Okay, not just anyone, but Lulu. Huh? She had to remind me that I am not in the club, I'm white, and I should not forget that, and that was wrong, and I reacted, said I'm sick of the racial prejudice here, and the next day she spoke to me, asked me about Jon, and I didn't want to talk about it. Yesterday, and today, I came in and put on my headphones, I'm hearing music instead of her, of them (yesterday it was smack about stupid terrorist warnings: "Did you hear about the apartment complexes???!!!!", the sky is falling, the sky is falling, the sky is falling! - to loosely quote Rob, from "Survivor:Marquesas": "Fear breeds loyalty, that's from the 'Godfathuh'", I had to tune her out immediately), and now she won't make eye contact. You know what? What the fuck ever. Right, sure, you think I'm immature, childish, not only eccentric, but fucked up, a real sociopath, and that's fine. I really don't care. Yeah, right now I don't care what anyone thinks. It's a breakthrough, in my opinion. Usually I care far too much. It's ridiculous. So what if I have a Superiority/Inferiority Complex and I'm a Paranoid Schizophrenic/Anal Retentive/Obsessive Compulsive? Got a problem with that? Don't you hate it when people call September 11th, 2001: "Nine One One"? Lulu says, "Well, after nine one one�blah, blah, blah", and "Isn't Denver near Seattle?". Help me, please! I'm babbling. Better than burbling, but still. Guess I need to go back to my reading. If only the fucking phone would stop ringing. See? There it goes again� *Just remember, your government wants you to be afraid. As long as you remain in fear you will remain loyal, as Rob says. Use your head. Think. Read. Learn. Knowledge is power. You'll be fine. Do not be afraid of rumours and innuendoes. Do you really think that everyone living in an apartment complex or high rise now needs to live in fear? GMAFB. GiveMeAFuckingBreak. Fear people, fear apartment fires, that's far more likely than some terrorist moving in to plant bombs. Cost of the War in Iraq
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