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December 04, 2002 - 11:04 am When I was a little kid, I asked my dad if he ever killed anybody. I was kind of disappointed when he said he hadn�t. �No one ever attacked mom?� �No.� �No one ever broke into the house and you had to shoot them?� �Nope.� �Weren�t you in a war?� �NO.� And, as far as I knew, he didn�t manage to kill anyone after that conversation either. I�ve accepted it. Good morning, hello, hello. This is an old school FadeIn update. I call it such as I am not at work, and instead at home, hopped up on the coffee, eating chocolate, watching MSNBC for reasons I cannot possibly hope to explain, and considering rocking out to The Pixies very soon. When the unemployment benefits kick in, the master plan will be complete. Speaking of which, I am considering several plans for my immediate future: 1: A years long, bitter, alcoholic stupor during which I alienate everyone I know and write several bad, stream of consciousness novels in the much reviled style of the Beats. 2: Laundry. 3: War profiteer. Does anyone else notice that Diaryland seems to go through stages? It seems that, sometimes, most of the people on my buddy list are depressed, or having a rough time of it, or sometimes things are going really well. Not unusual, but it always seems to happen collectively. I think we have just gone through a rough patch, my people, and we are now entering into the Era of the Funny. In particular, JoeyGlitterBoy, Genghis, and BoyMonkeyJames (who seems to have developed a recent penchant for suicide attacks) are amusing me most greatly lately. I don�t know if he did it recently or not, but Genghis changed the name of his page to �Where my wiggas at?� Humorous! I�ve been hanging out a lot lately with my new friend Edie. She�s a very cool chick, with a fantastically decorated apartment in Hollywood, and she has given me some of my most fun times in Los Angeles. It�s not a love thang, as I don�t think either of us has an overpowering desire to touch each others� goodies, but she�s fun. There is a price to these good times, however. Every time I go over to her apartment, one of my hands inexplicably ends up with a mysterious injury. The first time I went, I was afflicted with a stigmata. Last night, everything was going fine until I went to the bathroom. Upon my return to the living room, there were two deep cuts on my right pointer finger. I have no idea why this happened. I experienced no pain. The cuts simply appeared. I admit, it�s no Bleeding Bathroom Walls of Doom, but it is kind of sweet in a �let�s make Bill less homesick� way that another apartment is trying to kill me.
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