Enough
Back of the Vulturemobile.
I thought I didn't have a limit. I thought
wrong. Zach posted
a message to diary-l today that was so obnoxious, hostile, and clueless,
that I threw up my hands. He is positively begging people to dislike
him, condemning them for caring about him. Fuck him. Enough.
If you want a copy of the message, subscribe to
diary-l then request a copy of
digest #826. Otherwise, you'll have to take my word for it.
I'm not reprinting it.
Yes, I'm angry. I have always tried to be
at the very least a friend to him, with an option to buy. I'd still
come running if he needed me (sucker that I am) but no more volunteerism.
It's obvious that nothing I do or say will be appreciated, nor even taken
for what it is.
He believes himself unlovable, and needs so badly
to prove that he is right that he will drive off all the people who love
him. Fine. Sick bastard.
He's perfectly lovable otherwise.
It doesn't matter anymore.
I am working on a whole different journal entry
right now. If things go right, I will be making a guest appearance
in David Siegel's journal.
If things don't go right, or even if they do, I'll keep submitting stuff
until I get tired of it. There's no telling how many Thursdays might
wind up needing filler.
Writing for someone else's journal is a hard thing
to do. There is a style and tone thing going on in there already,
plus it's their journal, it's about them. Therefore,
you feel odd if you wind up going on and on about yourself. So then
you gotta find other topics. I have no life. No life, no topics.
Ok it's not as bad as all that, I do have a brain after all. But
I don't go a lot of places or witness a lot of events. I don't eat
out much, can't afford to.
Another reason for this to be such a challenge for
me is that Dave and I are almost diametrically opposite. Sure, he's
Jewish, too, and he has a brain. But he was born in, and I am a convert.
He is a vegan; I cannot live without dairy. He is into things like
skiing and bicycling; I am into living in cyberspace. I am
a jack of all trades and a master of none; he is a jack of all trades and
a master of all. He is an extensive world traveler; I went to Mexico
for a couple days (as a kid), spent 8 months in Saudi Arabia (invited by
Uncle Sam and King Fahd), and wasted 45 minutes in Ireland (drunken layover).
The most palpable difference though is one of class.
I dunno much about the circumstances he was born in, but by now he has
to be somewhere Up There. I don't even care to try and guess which
strata. Nearly all my life I have been on one side or the other of
the poverty line, only in recent years achieving the prestige of lower
middle class. Now with the web thing going on, I may cross over the
next boundary pretty quick. Of course I am talking about economic
class. I frankly don't give a shit about social classes. The
net is great for leveling that kinda crap. Anybody on the net but
still stuck in a class mentality is better off segregated unto themselves,
we don't need em out here.
Anyway, with all these differences, there is the
possibility that I will write something he either doesn't grok or doesn't
like, or both. Or, even if he does buy off on it and post it, it
might scare off or make uncomfortable some of his established audience.
They are indeed a markedly different crowd than some of the others I hang
in, birds of a feather and all that.
Pantene might be my downfall. The increased
silkiness of my hair is driving me to distraction, although it's kind of
what I wanted when I bought Pantene. Ever since I was a baby, the
feel of satiny things has been like a drug. The very touch of one
of those blanket edges caused a suckle reflex, my tongue clicking the roof
of my mouth. As I got older, and grew more hair, twisting one of
my locks in my fingers had the same effect. The pleasure and the
reflex, between them, could distract me from anything.
I then entered the Age of Processed Hair, and gradually
my hair lost its sheen and silkiness. This last batch of hair, cultivated
since I was voluntarily bald four years ago, hasn't had that much inflicted
upon it, and all it needed was some sympathetic shampoo and conditioner
to make it like it was when I was a kid. So now my hair gets all
twisted into these mock dreadlocks, my fingers stay tangled in it.
Hard to type that way.
link o' the day:
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