baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Send me An Angel-right fucking now Why is it that I am always home alone? I'm the musician in this relationship. I should be the one coming home late stinking of beer, cheap pot, and even cheaper perfume. Why? Why? Why? Me. Me. Me. Me. There. Now that I've gotten that little piece of useless melodrama out of my system... Vex-I didn't feel judged by you at all. It's just that your words got me thinking (as they always do.) And since you're lucky enough to not be a mere stroll across a hallway away, I decided to let my guilt hang out in our only form of communication-The Allmighty Online Journal. I'm grateful for our correspondence. Have I ever told you that? And you too-Ms. B-Jy-Ce. My email is [email protected]. I usually have it turned off to avoid the usual avalanche of offers to enlarge my breasts (they're small and very sexy thank you very much) or to enlarge my penis (it's small and very sexy thank you very much), but it is now turned on and breathing extremely heavy. It shall be turned off just as soon as you surrender your other url. I fully understand your reasons for having another journal since there are things you can write to those that know you personally as opposed to those (like me) who only know you through your words. Finally-a reasonable explanation. Thanks for sharing. By the way, do you all like my extreme command of the italicize code? Yes. I Am The King Of One Trick Ponys. It took a while, but I seem to actually want to update now. Quite simply, there are details here that I simply can't expose elsewhere. For a while, I was convinced I could just keep certain things locked inside the safety deposit of my mind and be fine. How wrong I was. Tonight, while the rice cooks and the turkey sausage broils, I am perusing the last of my Christmas Loot. Santa may not exist, but Amazon is a fine derivative. The last of the presents just arrived and now I can start the delicate process of wrapping the little bundles of commerce for my friends and family. In the "a'int it odd" category, I was in the process of mailing the first of many rough sketches to the fine artist who has agreed to do the illustrations for the next CD when I realized that I had lost his address and phone number. Due to distance and reticence, our conversations are of a virtual nature and I often have to wait for weeks before his reply pops into my inbox (I am a patient man, unless, of course, I am forced to be patient). You must understand: it could take a while to get this gentleman's address. He lives on a farm. He has a beard you could hide a muskrats in. He lives many states away. He never ever checks his damn email. And I've lost his address. Damnit, me. Damnit, me. But (cue Twilight Zone theme here), just as I started whipping myself with an imaginary switch from the dead mulberry next door, I looked to my left and there it was: a dusty paystub from two years ago with his address and phone number scribbled on the back. And this morning was no exception. Yet, there it was: a paystub with the precious information scribbled in messy cursive. After confirming that Mr. Serling wasn't hiding in some dark corner of my humble abode, I chalked this one up to pure luck. I have an angel. I know it. 8:15 p.m. - 2004-12-16 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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