02 July 2001 ~ Gentle reader...

First and foremost, thank you to those of you who got in touch with me about applying to colleges. I haven't yet replied to all your messages, but I did get them, did read them all, and was delighted that there are actually people out there who are behind me, even if I have no idea who some of you are, and most of you have never even seen my face.

To update you on how THAT process is going...

I got ahold of this woman in the State Office Building -- two people gave me her name and told me to go to her immediately and she'd hook me up with information, which she did. I also found this book in her office which listed, in alphabetical order, all the schools in the U.S. and Canada that offer Creative Writing as a major. So I went through them all, copied them all down -- all fucken 200 of them -- and have been going through this list picking out the ones that cost millions of dollars to attend, the ultra-religious ones, the girls-only ones, and the ones in New Jersey. I've narrowed it to about sixty. I also sent in some financial aid stuff and have actually gotten some of those brochures in the mail from colleges that have seemed particularly interesting... So, I'm well on my way, as the lady in the State Office Building said. I think she likes me. Especially since I wore the "Gay Pride Binghamton" shirt into her office. Heh.

I've found a couple colleges I'm in love with already. I won't list them because I'm not sure yet, and I don't want to say, "Oh my gahd, I MUST go to the Marmot Buddhist University in Omaha, Nebraska!" and then realize it's actually a shitty school. But as my list narrows, I'll keep you updated on what I'm doing and where I might be heading...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Second... To whomever has taken it upon themselves to call my DAD whenever I seem to be writing something provocative in this journal, knock it the hell off, okay?

I had lunch with my dad the other day at Lost Dog, and I'll tell you this... It was ME who picked up the bill, okay? I'm a damned adult; I can handle myself; I'm not really all that concerned with what my dad thinks of my lifestyle, and I don't know WHY anyone else is...

My dad suggested lunch because he was upset about my inferences that he'd had something to do with the weird loans on my financial records. This is a guy who's more concerned with how HIS name looks in print than with whether or not his mono-ridden daughter is drinking enough fluids, and this is NOT somebody who needs to know all the slimy little details of my life. Truly, most of this is useless to him anyway, so whomever you are who's called him up and said, "Hey man, your kid sleeps with girls," I must point out to you two things: one, I have never slept with a girl in my life, at least not in the Biblical sense, and two, if you NEED to inform people about what I say in this journal, link me to YOUR site or something. You don't need to call my dad. My dad does not need to know everything that goes on with me, and you DON'T need to provoke him with little tidbits.

If you're reading this because I'm J.'s daughter and you're interested in what sort of spawn the man has, why don't you just go to him and ask, "how are your kids?" If you're reading this because I'm Helena and THAT fascinates you for some reason, then know, for gahd's sake, it's in MY best interest if you'd let me solve my own problems without involving my paternal gene donor. How would YOU like it if I found YOU online, decided YOU weren't doing well, and called YOUR parents? Yeah, that's what I thought.

I'm a big kid. I can handle things. And if I can't, I know where to turn. And if I don't know where to turn, I'll ask a.) Aaron, b.) my mom, or c.) you guys.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Another request/offer extended to you guys... I'm a little bit broke and I've been listening to the same ten CD's for WAY too long...

So... Is anybody up for a mix-tape exchange? Buying blank tapes for a buck or two and trading them is a hell of a lot cheaper than buying twenty dollar CD's, and quite a bit more fun, too... Besides, it would give everybody involved an opportunity to hear stuff they've maybe never heard before, which is even better than buying something you've heard a million times on the radio and have decided to own.

So if anybody's game, email me at belong@angelfire.com, and we can hook each other up. Everybody's happy. Yay. Oh, and FYI, this is about a year old, but it's a catalogue of all the stuff I owned a year ago. That is, before somebody made off with my Savage Garden CD (GROWL) and I bought a few dozen other CD's at my discount just before Record Town fired me...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Oh, and a little message to the cocksucker known as "Somebody" in my guestbook...

Just "FYFI," as you put it, you don't scare me, you're not hurting my feelings, and you're not destroying my life. I don't know what you want, but I'm not intimidated by a coward who refuses to give his or her name. What the hell are you doing reading my journal for months and months if you don't even LIKE me? Let's face it, kiddo, you're obsessed, and that doesn't lend much credibility to the idea that you're any threat to me.

So you don't think I'm good-looking... And I'm supposed to give a shit what an anonymous poster in my guestbook thinks? As far as I'm concerned, you're not "somebody"; you're NOBODY, and I couldn't care less what you think. I don't know who you are -- I honestly don't -- and I don't know where you got this chip on your shoulder or why you think it's so fun to be an asshole to me. But the way I see it, YOU are the one with the problem, not me.

If you want to argue, email me and we'll argue. If you want to fight, knock on my door. Evidently, you know a bit about me, and I'm in the phone book, so look me up, ring my doorbell, and we'll see what exactly the problem is. If you want to scare me, you're out of luck, because I know who you're NOT, and you're not anybody who could harm me irreparably.

(Really, there's no such thing as irreparable damage, as I told my friend Brian, unless you're working with burned food, cat urine, religion, or head injuries...)

I'm not going to argue or throw a fit right now, because you really aren't worth it. Helena, getting angry and shadowboxing with some phantom guestbook-lurker? I have a little more dignity than that. If you really want to start shit, go ahead and do it -- you know where to find me, I suppose. Until you've got the guts to play fair, we're not playing, and I'm going to ignore you. State your name, state your gripe, and then maybe we've got a good fight on our hands, but until then, your presence is nothing significant, and you can get used to the idea of being nobody special.

As I said, I don't know what you have against me, but I might mention that I really have very few regrets in my life, so if I've fucked with you, you probably deserved it. For the time being, I've got plenty of people who are fantastic friends and who also think your petty little comments are ridiculous. So have fun whining into the wind, but this conversation is over until you obtain the guts to show yourself.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Off to buy toilet paper and make something of the day...
~Helena*