I'm faking all my lines like that dolphin called flipper
For the second time in as many night’s tonight’s entry is being brought to by Aliens: Special Edition. One of the joys about being able to touch type is that you can type diary entries while watching one of the greatest major motion action pictures of our time. Yes the late 80s to early 90s was a golden era for action movies. Though I want to know why an armored personal carrier has rubber tyres. So children the lesson for tonight is learn to touch type and you too can watch the tastiest fruit from Hollywood’s loins.
I did have something to say, today. Things that I thought were witty and clever, little gems of insight, but they’re gone now. Never to be seen again I am betting.
I don’t know how I forget to mention this last night, but some how it slipped my mind, the eldest of the two cats was sick not once, not twice, not thrice but on four separate occasions last night. Maybe five. I didn’t witness the first occasion but I hear that she vomited all over my Aunt’s bed. The second time, I didn’t see that either but she vomited all over something, I think it was the dining room floor, I did how ever see the third and fourth time. I was standing around in the kitchen with my mother and grandmother (yes we had the entire family there last night) discussing something, I think it could have been about the court case and how my Aunt calls anyone who doesn’t agree with her belief that there is no such thing as an illegal entrant a Muslim hater, anyway so while I was making a point about something the cat just wandered in and the next thing we knew she was bringing up what looked like chicken chunks and milk.
I worked on my jigsaw some more today, I am starting to get some understanding of what exactly the puzzle is of. I am still working on the old and decrepit chair corner but I am starting to see what looks like cats, or pieces of cats in the jigsaw pieces that I sort through. I really have to transport the box to my room so I can work on it while I listen to the BBC World Service tonight.
The trick to making really good curried egg sandwiches is to use one tablespoon of mayonnaise less than the number of eggs you have, and for every two or three table spoons of mayonnaise you add one tablespoon of curry powder. That way the egg mix, isn’t too gooey, and it isn’t too dry. Plus it has a sufficient kick while not being over powering in the curry powder taste. I could eat curry egg all day, with out putting it in between slices of bread. I accidentally added too much curry powder today though, I was impatient and tapping on the base of the curry powder container and then **poof** half of the container was in the mayo and egg mix. For some reason the mix was a lot sweeter, and while not tasting any different heat and curry wise the mouthfuls of chewn sandwich burnt going down.
On the subject of food, there really is nothing better than being the first person to take the first spoonful from the brand new tub of vanilla ice-cream. Nothing is better than that. Though the ice-cream is looking sadly depleted. There is maybe not even a quarter of the tub left and it was opend this morning. Yes I had vanilla ice-cream and caramel sauce for breakfast, but that’s not the point nor reason, when I went back there tonight for my desert I noticed that the ice-cream was half gone and my sister was wandering up the stairs with a big bowl of it in her hands. So I followed her lead and had a rather bowl as well mixed with a bit of coca cola that I later transferred into a glass. For some reason my sister and I, can’t stand the other having more of anything, than we do. Wether that’s food, money, friends, internet time, CDs or embryonic fluid. Are other people like this with their siblings? Do they constantly fight and squabble and scheme up ways to get more than their brother or sister? Or is this only something that twins do? When we were younger, during the summer, we would play in the pool with the siblings of some of our parents friends. 9 days out of 10 we would end up fighting and a rather irate parent, usually our father, would come drag us out of the pool take us upstairs and scream at us to watch the other children who were in the pool and just happened to be sisters, and screamed “If they get along with out fighting then why the fuck can’t you two?” we would just point at the other and say it’s “theit fault” my father would yell and scream some more before sending us back to the pool. On the way out, and as soon as he was out of earshot we would look at each other and one of us would say “what the fuck is his problem?”
Anyway I have a puzzle to put together.
And why do I keep thinking it’s Saturday?
Maybe tomorrow I will discuss why literature isn’t an experience and really nothing more than a glorified narrative. I still haven’t found anything to top my entry berating musicians who call themselves artists and whiny rock stars that don’t like the attention that they get, despite the fact that they are musicians. I feel like being offensive. What the hell I will leave you with something that I had started one night and never finished.
I worry that I am letting the diaryland community down. I am worried that since I do not fill my diary with bad poetry and endless paragraphs about how shit my life is that I am not cool enough, not worthy to carry the diaryland torch. I am worried that since I don’t have a diary design that is filled with images of prescription drugs or dead flowers, I am not real enough. I am worried that since I am not gay or lesbian or a cutter, that the diaryland elite will find out and run me out of town but not before tar and feathering me, and warning not to come back till I have suffered enough. But most of all I am worried that I am not keeping it real.
Because I can’t spit at suburbia, and I don’t like indie music.
I don’t feel the need to whine and consume tofu burgers.
Nor do I want to meet emancipated boys in muscle t-shirts and bi-girls who like punk.
I don’t have a desire to slice myself open and swallow a bottle of pills and to tell the world about it.
I don’t want to alienate myself from society and then complain that it doesn’t accept me despite the fact that I don’t accept it.
I don’t feel the need to call everyone I meet who doesn’t agree with me a close minded bigot.
And I certainly don’t want to indulge in group sex, because it is rebelling against the norm.
I don’t want any of this. But yet, some how for some reason I am drawn towards these fuckers. I spend countless hours flicking through diaries, jumping from link to link to read about them and their lives. I am drawn to them and repelled by them at the same time. Why am I so drawn to suicide kings and drama queens?
Good night, and don’t be shy with your hate mail.
