"My feelings never change a bit, I always feel like shit. I don't know why, I guess that I just do."

-Elliott Smith

Actually, now Jamiroquai is on "Deeper Underground". I don't like this guy's fans, and I hate his boogie woogie lame-ass dance style (so shoot me) but this fucking song is great. No doubt the video influenced my opinion a little. But I can seriously get down to this song.

"I know I'm better off standing in the shadows, far from humans with guns."

Chaara is getting carried away with song quotes here. Like it matters. This page is so hidden no one comes to it. (Nadia, I think you're the only one. But you're used to these .. letters.) It's 2:42am. I'm awake and typing. Not that that bothers me anymore. No one else is on their PCs any earlier so icq is bereft of worthy conversation any time before midnight usually. I am a fresh and wholehearted supporter of ICQ. It's almost... scary. But that's the last shred of free will I have in me speaking. Fuck it. I'm in.

My brother is sending me some mp3s through icq as I type. Adrian is my mp3 source. Also a nocturnal net nerd. I'm the neo version I guess. Blablabla. Just sent me some obscure Nick Cave tracks. (props to Adrian!)

I'm not feeling particularily emotional right now.

"I'm not happy and I'm not sad." -The Smiths.

Okay, that's no longer true. The Smiths have come on and now my life is shit. I hate my fucking lowpaying job. I hate that I am not active in my music life. I hate that I can think of no clear fucking reason why I have not done anything to change that. I have been living like this for over a year. Trudging along in this soulsucking shit job. What the fuck am I waiting for? I don't want a better job. I don't want a JOB. I want my music. I want to stop WAITING for my CD to be perfect. I want to live. I want release. What am I waiting for? What is my excuse? Why am I so holding back? How did I settle so deeply into this shit life I have always said I would never live? What the fuck happened? How do I get out? Everyone is fine with me until I start questioning these things. [Chaara, just keep your head down. This is life. Take it or leave... ] What do I do now? What do I fucking do? The first solution here would be to just fog up my thinking with shitloads of drugs. The kind encouraged by the people who don't like to hear me realizing my tight little world is shit.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me, am I satisfied?"

"Heaven knows I'm miserable now."

"Breathe. Keep breathing... I can't do this alone."

"To suffer greatly from the indignity of working for a living."

"Get behind the mule in the morning and plow."

I am human and I need to be loved.
"You once talked to me about love, and you painted pictures of, a never-never land. And I could have gone to that place, but I didn't understand. I didn't understand." -Elliott Smith

You remember that kick-ass cool song "Damn, I wish I was your lover"? Sophie B.Hawkins. It wuz a hit in probably '91. Still a cool song. I want to cover it. Do some punked up version of it. Though I don't have the means for that, I'd probably just do some terribly morose and mopey, self-piteous, acoustic guitar and mad organ rendition... Anyways, it's a cool song. Don't forget it. And don't forget "Nothing Compares 2 U" The Sinead O'Connor career-setter. What a timelessly beautiful song. Ooohhh, I am hurting. This is hurting. Owww...Ooooow. Those 2 songs back to back are especially wrenching. Oh woe is me...


I want my book back punk. I don't want your dick or your touch or your kiss or your honey. Or even your so-called friendship. I want my fucking book. And I want that tape that I left in your dad's car. And I want that roll of film that you filched out of my camera. (What, did you think you'd find photos of me and your bro's fucking roommate on there?) And I want back the last scraps of my already unstable opinion of males. Nevermind that actually, you couldn't supply that. I'm being a cunt here out of self-defense obviously. But don't think that makes me soft. I don't know what the fuck wuz going down in yer head throughout our drunken fun... And I don't care now. I just want my stuff back. I fucking mean that boy. Whatever it takes to get that stuff back I don't care. Just give it back. The principle of it is what is irking me so goddamned much. Who are you to me now? Some guy who tasted good, but wuz a lousy fucking friend. And who has one of my favourite books, and an irreplacable tape of music. And some roll of film... Whistler film. Not that I really want that... And other things I'm sure will come to me in a new surge of pissed-offedness. I feel used because I wuz fucking used. And what really fucking stings now is that I knew I wuz being used all along. And I enjoyed it.