...we are the dead of night... 'Chelle's DeadJournal
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Sunday, August 4th, 2002

Subject:Here we go.
Time:10:36 pm.
Mood: enthralled.
Music:Stronger, Britney Spears.
Then, I went mad.

It happened in a Seven Eleven, approximately two minutes after the Slurpee machine had filled the brightly labeled cup with Blazin’ Buleberry. I stared at the electric slush, mesmerized by the chemical components of its fluorescent color dye. While I plunged further into trance, the contraption of plastic knob levers and spiraling glop dials rattled internally. I heard it pounding at itself, shaking off the Formica countertop.

That’s just when I completely lost my mind.

The sling on my Tactical cocked back and everyone in the store had stalled as their auditory systems registered the noise. It innately meant trouble and I was never a person that disappointed an audience. I gazed around at the hallucigenic surplus of candy wrappers and potato chip foils. They were distracting me with their absurd starkness, a scorch in my pupil that made me see white spots of delirium. Slick and loud, their faces deterred my logic in an array of mindless colors. It was me or them.

The clerk standing in front of a firing wall of cigarette shelves held his hands up, speechless.

My head lifted, disorientated and skewed like a misshapen portrait of something that couldn’t be clarified. This wasn’t going to be easy. I felt my teeth clenching together in lieu with the abrupt raise of my body temperature. Moisture was latched to my forehead and dripped down my sternum. If I passed out now, the snaring mouths of Pez heads, Starbucks Frappacino Delight, Wise Onion and Garlic Chips, and Fruit Essence Water bottles would have my head rolling in the aisles.

The staff was out the door in a flash of cherry red service smocks.

Sharp as whip, I swerved around and emptied at least five bullets in the Slurpee machine. Sparks of ricocheting light exploded from the device and convenience store shrapnel burst forward. Grimacing, I withdrew from my assault, flipping the pistol handle like a cowboy. For an instance, there was silence as the toxic smell of burnt rubber lofted up in gray clouds. I eyed it gravely. Our fight was not over.

The Slurpee machine screamed a shrill and deafening groan of agony. Its wires lashed out of the sockets like razor edged cords. I dodged desperately, rolling along the linoleum until my back crashed into a Pepsi vendor. A single can clunked out and made a dull landing on the tiles. I scrambled to my feet, eyes owlishly wide as I witnessed the true nature of the Slurpee machine.

It mutated in a steady stream of transformations, bolted arms sprouting from the fan belt grates on its sides. The wheeling portals of slush crept upward as it gurgled out a guttural growl of displeasure. It had two sockets, one I intimately recognized as Blazin’ Blueberry and the other glowed insanely red, Crazy Cherry. I gasped and aimed between the two rotating pupils as the machine lurched forward from the wall unit.

The bullets punctured its tin sheath and it vomited a splurge of Coca Cola Slurpee from its ventilation shaft. My face twisted as I looked at in with some kind of morbid fascination. This was undoubtedly the core of unbridled evil. While I stood aghast at the hideous metamorphosis of the machine, its electrical wire slashed out at me like a scorpion tail. The outlet plugs sliced the side of my face, knocking it to the side.

Grounded to my knees, I balked at the checkerboard floor that was bleeding hazily. Stop light red droplets were falling from my chin. Furious with the dishonorable strike, I grabbed the can of frigid Pepsi Twist. Tearing the lid opener out with my teeth, I threw the can out like a grenade. It smacked the Slupree machine’s head and I ducked into the freezer aisle.

An explosion of the likes I had never heard before blew a hole in the side of the market store. Doritos flew in the air, landing like scalpel heads around my cowering body. Thrown into panic, I crawled up from my shielded position as I ran down the wipe of air conditioned doors. Chips Ahoy cookies about the width of hockey pucks pelted my path, shattering the glass covering Ben and Jerry ice cream. I was being ambushed.

The Slurpee machine bellowed a coarse, menacing laugh and I shot my head over my shoulder to get a look at it. The machine towered at seven feet, its gears and sprockets circling wildly and unbidden. The left side of its head was missing a large chunk and the Blazin’ Blueberry eye sputtered with light like a twitch. The grating of its smile widened impossibly as one of its grotesquely massive feet stepped forward.

I backed into the rear wall, wedged between the venomous grasp of two Budweiser poster models. Frantic, I held up my gun to the machine threateningly, crumbs of imploded Dunkin Dounuts pasteries stuck to my lashes like snowflakes. “Your reign of terror ends here,” I spat bitterly, “Slurpee machine.” After a pause, I corrected myself, “Or should I say,” Hesitantly, I let the suspense settle before a rueful whisper hissed by my lips, “Blazin’ Blueberry?”

It was rendered immobile for a moment of contemplation and I mistakenly thought the worst of it was over. Suddenly, from the internal mechanisms of the Slurpee Cyclops, a wet and bubbling laughter belted out. My stern sight on its dizzily spinning eyes wavered at this new arrogance it was showing. My fears were spot on and the front grill on the looming machine cracked open. Inside its tin chest, a ribbed shaft fell forward like an anvil at eye level with me. I was struck horrified. A giant gatling gun was pointed straight for me.

“Oh boy,” I squeaked in disbelief before bolting to the side.

A rain of ammunition ate through the Coors blimp and chopped up the back wall I had been standing against. Its abrasive noise battered my ears in spurts synchronized with the unending cycle of the gatling cartridge. Desperate, I scraped the chess board tiles with my fingers as I crouched down the aisles. I needed a weapon to combat this abboration with. My eyes darted to the sides, feverishly searching as the gunfire’s projection swept overhead.

At last, I spotted a toy bin with whiffle bats and soft balls.

Colliding into it, the cardboard box with Derick Jerter’s face plastered on the side collapsed on the floor. I grasped a bat by its banana yellow handle and strained to my feet. The Slurpee machine was facing me, an egotistical smirk still harbored on its carnival face.

Calmly, I scooped up a soft ball. Lightly, I kissed its bristled texture, rubbing the ball of my thumb against the sandpaper slices around its circumference. Drawing in a deep breath, I tossed the bauble up. And, for a moment, there was nothing but quiet in the destruction of the Seven Eleven.

I cracked the ball out of the park and it rocketed toward the Slupree machine with uncanny speed. The moment the off white plastic struck the blaring red eye of the monster, a volcanic explosion shattered the air.

My body blew towards the electric doors, which slid aside for my departure. I slapped the pavement outside, tumbling and turning until I heaped at the street curb. Blearily, I could make out the flames engulfing the store in a post modern furnace of bargain delights.

It was over. I gasped and my eyes rolled back languidly.

I had saved the world.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Thursday, June 20th, 2002

Subject:Go, Robot, Go!
Time:11:19 pm.
Mood: mischievous.
Music:Ride a Shooting Star.
Robot Menace Attacking the City, film at Eleven!

There's only one person who can do it, one kid that can stand up against the villainous tyranny that plagues our very home, Hero, the little bot! [Quick shot of a boxy robot with two antennas and big circles for eyes, peeking up over the towering building tops.]

[A sharp pan swerves us around, facing the notorious destructor, Bad Bot! He's grinning ear to ear, massive and giving out a haughty laugh of victory] Give it up, Hero! [Bad Bot bellows to the lens, a huge metallic finger thrust forward] You'll never win!

[Hero shoots his fists out at his sides as the civilians cheer for him] Help us, Hero! [Encouraged by the supportive cry of millions, Hero makes a defensive stance in the middle of a large street intersection]

I won't let you win, Bad Bot! [Pow! Rockets flare from the bottom of Hero's clunky robot soles and he bursts toward Bad Bot! The fight ensues.]

[Hero is clearly outclassed and Bad Bot unleashes an array of attacks on the city's protector. Cut to a wide angle shot of Bad Bot pulling a bulky arm back to sock Hero in the head. Cue the shot of pedestrians in horror, a mother covering her child's eyes! Hero tumbles backwards from the strike, flattening a medium sized apartment building in his fall.]

[An overhead shot of the smokey rumble that Hero lays in, his mechanical eyes blinking like a camera's shutter. From out of screen, we can hear Bad Bot's cruel snicker!] You're not match for me, Hero! [Cut to a worm's eye view of the looming menace as Bad Bot stands tall] This city is mine! [He raises a fist of triumph!]

[Back to Hero, he can dimly hear the people of the city willing him to get up, to fight! Hero's antenna whips straight and he jumps up to his feet with a spurt of uncalled for energy! Shot of the people cheering! Hero wipes a robotic hand against a dent by his mouth, determined as he peers to Bad Bot] Not on my watch, Bad Bot! [Hero bullets toward Bad Bot again, this time decking him good with a super upper cut!]

[Bad Bot flies! A halo of stars circles the evil robot's head as he staggers back. But Hero isn't through with him yet! In a stunning array of moves, each with a skewed still shot, Hero pummels the disastrous villain!]

[The people are ecstatic! Hero slowly strides to the defeated Bad Bot, confident] You're toast! [Before Bad Bot can retort, Hero squishes up the villain at all sides, kicking and punching Bad Bot into a metal ball. With a running start, Hero dashes down the streets, vibrating all the windows, and takes a swift kick at the Bad Bot ball, shooting it out to out space! Everyone celebrates!]

[Cut to a shot of Hero being awarded a ribbon by the mayor among the city's populace. Confetti showers the air and everyone chants Hero's name! With finesse, Hero gives the lens a victory sign, stars bursting around him.]

The day is saved!
Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:Speed
Time:11:03 pm.
Mood: amused.
Music:Ma L'amore No, Lina Termini.
I work for the Mafia, Giovanni's Pizza Delivery Service. You get your pizza delivered in twenty minutes or they murder the courier for you. That's me, the delivery boy.

And I have five minutes to deliver the pizza.

I'm speeding in the company car, a tomato red '86 Camaro that looks like a bullet from Mars down the street. I shot by a few lights and the tires are going to orbit every time I hit a rise. The front fender just got cracked on a pothole, I heard it. Think I saw piece of red plastic hit the windshield. I had to get this to the door in three minutes and twenty-eight seconds. I figure this is serious business by now so I turn the Renato Carosone off, Tu Vuo' Fa' L'Americano stops.

I floor the brakes, hitting my stop, headlights halting a breath away from the fire hydrant.

"Ciao." I say it breathlessly, holding a steaming box in my hands like a silver platter. Mr.Capillo files out a whole greeting, half of which flies over my head. I'm from Brooklyn, not Sicily. He hands me a roll of bills and gestures for me to go off. Take it.

That's why I've got the delivery boy job.

"Buona Notte, Senore." Slam. I shut the door and just sit there for a minute, contemplating my mortality. The scent of Fettichini Alfredo and Mediterranean pizza will never leave this car, no matter how many times I've flown down DeVue with the windows down. Idly, I hit the switch and the lights go off on the Giovanni's Pizza sign on the roof.
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Tuesday, June 11th, 2002

Subject:Bondage beamer, 3 o'clock.
Time:3:37 am.
Mood: contemplative.
Music:Bills, bills, bills..
I'm a loser, I think dully, as I haul the Sunday New York Times, worth a Bible in weight, across the street.
With vindication, I spot Aldo's Pizza. A watermelon ice will undoubtedly make me feel better about all this.
I stride inside and a table of crucifix sporting guidos have been immediately alerted of my presence. The staff behind the counter wavers, uncertain of who will be volunteered to help me.
I smile as harmlessly as I can in hope to lure one.
A lone, courageous blonde steps up to help me. I've seen her before, plenty of times. I suspect she must be forced to work here because her uncle owns the store or the likes.
In the most polite stream of verbage possible, I ask for a small watermelon ice. She complies easily but, in the middle of her pizza girl duty, she asks me if I'm one of those.
Those?
I feel my perky expression cripple but I strive to keep a smile. Does she mean I'm one of those people that comes in and bothers them for an ice? Yes, I supposed I was.
One of those, I ask.
You know, she elborates, one of those goths? What do you consider yourself?
I feel cornered by my lack of preparation. Protectively, I clutch the volume of bulky newspaper while I search for an excuse for myself.
I don't consider myself much of anything, I confess to this dashing blonde with a winning smile. She's questioned me before, about my hair, my boots, various things that she feels inclined to inquire about.
This is all very flattering to me. I'm unaccustomed to be interrogated and the questions seem like a test of verbal wit here. She serves my ice and I pay her.
I introduce myself, suddenly finding it about time that we knew each other's names.
Ann, she is. I mull this over.
She has a cigarette outside, I lick my ice with a content expression. We talked for a while, in the glare of summer, and I noted her gestures.
We attended the same high school. I sympathized with her greatly from the depth of my heart.
After a while, she stubs out the cigarette filter in the concrete and I try to keep my ice from dripping down my wrist. Hey, I tell her with all honesty, it was nice talking to you.
She smiles and tells me the same with a light laugh.
I'll see you later. Toasting the ice to her goodness, I walk up the block, radiating with the feeling that I had done something good. That I had accomplished something very worthy of being called a good deed.
I had delved into a little shed of light that was the pizza girl's life.
At home, falling back on my bed, I passed out completely, wondering about driving down the street in a beamer with her and her high school friends.
Although, when I woke up, I thought about having bondage sex with French manicured nails and high heels.
I don't know
how easy that would be
in a beamer.
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Wednesday, March 20th, 2002

Subject:I can't get you outta my head.
Time:10:08 pm.
Mood: apathetic.
Music:Another one bites the dust.
Disillusionment is not solitary.
Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.

Wednesday, February 13th, 2002

Subject:Never thought I'd fill with desire
Time:2:42 pm.
Mood: loved.
Music:My sweet prince, Placebo.
My sweet Prince.

You are the one.

My boots keep tripping over each other on the street and I'm trying to make a relatively straight line of passage. Classes have eaten my brains out so there's a slight imbalance in my skull. Consequently, my path of destination is a little skewed as I approach the stoop.

That's when I spot a moderately shaped box on the steps, wedged between the doorframe and this potted plant we keep outside. Initially, I'm paralyzed. My residual neurons are fusing together with excitement as I gawk at it. This dear, beautifully personal little box has been shipped across the country on priority mail from Albuquerque. Momentary gasp.

And then I get venomously furious that the mailman had left it on my stoop with third rate seclusion. Tomorrow morning I will wait with breakfast utensils in hand to carve his heart out with a spoon. If anything would've happened to that box, it would've been Hello Niagara as the tears stream down my face. But I digress.

I take it inside like a bandit with the loop, mother hen hoarding her chicks, obsessive kid that's head over heels for the person that had sent the box. You know. My neck nearly breaks on the rapid flurry of steps down to the basement. With painstaking pride, I set it down and flap my coat off like a malformed bird trying to get untangled. This is what I've been waiting for, something worth waiting for. As much as I lust over tearing it apart, half of me wants to absorb it a little more, to bask.

I bask for about forty-seven seconds.

Then I dive.

I'm already smiling and my heart is going into some kind of hyperventilating fibrillation that would probably require pulmonary recessitation. Wow. My fingers splay on my address that has been written in the unmistakable calligraphy that Ania has. Swirls and accented lettering. I hold it up and peek at the return address, beaming at it.

Ania spoils me, notoriously. Everything I receive from her leaps and bounds ahead of my expectations. She shares the same, absurdly important, need that I have to make things visually presentable. Especially the tangible representations of ourselves that we sent in gift boxes. Speaking of which, Its a lovely box. Soft designs on it that I can detect hearts on.

After a brief turmoil with white tissue paper stuffing, I extract the first star, the largest one. And just stare at it.

Staring, I mean it. I'm not being fucking cute or anything.

Its beautiful. By describing it, I'm going to fall short on failing words, but by not going into its aesthetics, I would be doing it less honor. Its a sharp, precise, star shaped box that coated with tendrils and vines of black and this velvet looking crimson on a white base. Its mesmerizing, that's why I was doing the whole dumbfounded gawking bit. In the hypnotizing curls, Ania had written in lyrics to Placebo's My Sweet Prince.

I. Fucking. Love. That. song.

Utterly.

As if that wasn't enough, she has a Larcet cd inside it, which I keep with exclusive selfishness. And, to boot, she had printed to pages for me. I'm not a hugely sentimental person by nature, but her second letter made a stir [Yes, that's a trite description, but I'm being honest-] in me I simultaneously had and hadn't anticipated. Ania writes so gorgeously. To have her gorgeous writing aimed at you, though, could make the walls flip on their sides. It is understatedly dear to me. Very.

In the second box she included there's this little fuzzy heart that sparkles a bit. When I plucked it out and gave it a curious squeeze, I noticed there was an A at the bottom of the box. Enthusiastic, I peeked in the larger one and there's a coordinating M at the bottom of it. I squealed.

Thank you, Ania.

You couldn't have done anything more perfect. Although I would've been heart broken if you did keep it.

My

Sweet Prince.

You are the one.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Friday, February 1st, 2002

Subject:Theft
Time:11:55 pm.
Mood: horny.
Music:I Sit on Acid, Lords of Acid.
I don't know where my usual blob, happy looking, chow mien, moo shoo icon is.
Soemone will pay severely for this.

The bunnies will have to do for now.

Even though they don't fuck. Let's see what happens when I put the mood on 'horny'. Gasp. What if they do screw as bunnies habitually do?

Score.
Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.

Subject:mindelssselfindulgence
Time:11:04 pm.
Mood: bouncy.
Music:Trust a Try, Janet Jackson. Yeah, that's right...
My absence, which is notable, wishes to be excused on the factual grounds that it was inescapable. Much work needed to be accomplished and due dates have popped up on me like a pack of wild hyenas on speed.

Besides, a good portion of my time has been spent listening to Boroquian pop music.

I find the attraction to such a genre astounding. The infiltration of pop into my stereo has done an array of macrosocial wonderments for me. I remember very specifically buying a slew of Prodigy disks when I was younger, back when everyone was doing that ust because Firestarter seemed like an envigorating soundtrack to narcotic usage. But more specifically, I recall giving them all away to a fellow classmate.

And yet, I find myself wiggling to Breathe and perking up like a malnurished dog at the scent of Alpo when techno comes on.

Techno, that's not pop-

-there's more.

The advent of my pop epiphany includes songs which, I admit, I'm avoiding the mention of. Prodigy is painful enough tp admit. But If I told you what my little md was housing at this very moment, I should never live down being ostracized.

So why not? A good dosage of humiliation is in due order.

J..

Uh.

J-jan..

Sputter.

Juh-janet.. J-jackson.

Whew. Holy shit. That hurt. Mighty fuck, did it hurt. Okay, let me justify it like the final minutes of afternoon talk show. She's got this one track off her new cd, Trust a Try. I swear, the shit ain't bad. In fact, its great. Believe me.
It starts off like the usual bit she does now, oddly and disorganized in beat like but with a little operetta accompanied by string orchestra. After twenty seconds of it, suddenly this electric guitar wails in and that's where the song takes a vast turn for notability. The sound resembles more of her Rhythm Nation work then her neogothic hiphop exploits with Missy E.

So, yes. This is like my Britney fascination.

I have no idea why I've been listening to a massive amount of quasi hard pop rather then the usual assortment of industrial. Although it does give me slight pleasure when-
["What're you listening to? Slayer?"]
"Uh, no-"
["What, like, Slayer?"]
"Jesus-"
["What, then?"]
"Brintey's Over Protected."
["You twisted fuck."]

To end this all, I wanted to add that my dearest Ania has written one of her little masterpiece teasers in her blog. I really enoy playing with her, the most and undoubtedly the best that has ever passed my way. She has an indescribable attribute to her writing that never ceases to amaze me in its intrigue and sensuality.
Or what it does to me, physically.
I've never looked forward to playing with anyone so ardently in my little history of failed writing.
And I knew it from the square-go, the very moment I tagged her down out of chance.

I couldn't be happier that I found her.

And she knows it.

I only hope she can extract a fraction of what I feel from her writing off of mine. A feeling of debt.

Enough of the techno pop and literary praise, though.

There's work to do.

Musical fuel must be found.

[She brought love
She brought joy
She brought-
She brought all th'feelings
Thought you'd never feel again.] Trust a Try
Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Tuesday, January 15th, 2002

Subject:Six points to chart a course, seven for a destination
Time:11:43 pm.
Mood: listless.
There's really no logic for putting it down.
Then again, this whole operation is illogical.
And I'm not logically based.
So things get stupidest by the word.

You know, there was a bit of filming going on for this boy band one summer. Little boys doing odd and frightening things for their video. People gathered around and watched. My accomplices and I were asked to be extras.
All we had to do was lifts our arms up and down while the kiddies did their thing.
And when they put the song over the speakers, it was awful.

This girl to my left said, That was the worstest song I've ever heard.
And I say to her, That's the worstest English I've ever heard.

There has been more subway sleep.
I floated off on the train, about when it was doing its whole bullet into Brooklyn. I slit my eyes at Hoyt and woke up at Boyd. Each time I sit down into those plastic tangerine seats, I can feel my head start to shut down. A light sway, heat, and quiet. I sleep.

Some days, when we haven't seen each other in a while, I guess at what the light of my life is doing. And when we talk, I think its awful that those days we've been apart is just another spit in the bucket.

People are talking about stuff
Stuff like
Yadda, yadda
And then, pop, we have to go into
Flirt, flirt
And I don't feel like looking over the light of my life
Knowing that I haven't been faithful enough.

If I can quote Postmortem-
"I don’t know where I am,
but I know this isn’t home.
I don’t remember what I did,
but I know it wasn’t good."

I adore that.

My poor quality English, likesay.
I wrote a story for KC and stayed up late in an act of sheer desperation to complete it. Satisfaction in ending sentences with periods. done. deal. endy. story.
Although, when it was done, I paused for a while before I shipped it off to KC.
I didn't know if it was too base or too lewd, or too much in quantity of anything that was unpolished.
I think its going to be posted.

And then everyone can see how all typing of mine has the linear course of going from Point A into an unspecified dot in the odessey of space.

But that's just what this is for.
Stuff.
Lots of stuff that has no relation.

I don't know why I got so sentimental towards the, uh, uppity part of this episode.

It won't happen again, that's my promise.

And I always give myself two weeks before I break things.

Little 15 is a good song.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:Mein Soldat
Time:1:51 am.
Mood: hopeful.
Music:Pet shop Boys, Its a Sin.
Classes. Subject to slave labor, menial tasks of consequence, and obligatory flirtation.

Commute. Weather conditions stagnant in poor quality, boots taking toll, teas are many although people have put sugar in them. I do not ask for sugar in my tea.

Social compatibility. To do list including basic training for assimination into society. I will start over because current skills need refresher course.

Sleep. Want sleep.

Drawing. High productivity, pleasing results. Beam.

My little liebe is about, I gallop to her.

Mission Objective. Rerouting goals of future scholastics, work must be done promptly and wholly, no more anime swapping as subsequent disciplinary action, and more attentiveness in class.

I give myself two weeks.

And I have lost ten pounds.

I don't know how.

"Akard, think about the future!"
Comments: Add Your Own.

Wednesday, January 9th, 2002

Subject:Third Reich Starvation
Time:9:42 pm.
Mood: hungry.
Music:Beers, Steers, and Queers by Revolting Cocks.
I walked for miles, not for a croissant sale, but in search of the greater good, a gift. Sadly, all forward attempts of physically apprehending said gift have resulted in bitter failure. It happens to be sold out.
The Gestapo is behind this.
I can feel it.
Yesterday I blew forty dollars at L'Express on Sausage du Jour, Belgium beer, escargot, coffee, and creme brulait.
And today, I starve because I'm spent of all captial.
Do not fret because I have been trained by a select group of guerillas that are more organized then any other anti-goverment millita. Using my distinct sense of survival, I maintained myself through out the day by polishing off a box of cereal, rationing Snapple Iced Tea [Raspberry, one unit], nipping at Martzipan, and having a bite of cornbread that was prepared out of desperation.
Jesus.
I feel my eyes starting to hallucinate.
Fat bowls of Fettichini Alfredo hip-hop around my head in a halo.
That's the straw. I must flee.
Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Tuesday, January 8th, 2002

Subject:French Heroin
Time:3:36 am.
Mood: predatory.
Music:Britney Spears, Over Protected.
I like walking down the street with my boot soles skidding along to Britney's new single. Hitting a puddle of water, thinking

I tell'em what I like
What I want
What I don't
But every time I do
I stand corrected.

All the building tops pop up and down.

I walked to the bakery, armed with only a smile. Through the snow, against the wind, I hear that theme from Lawerance of Arabia abruptly, trudging through a desert, when I spot Fior D'Italia's neon green lights. My heart skips a beat.
I burst in an two Italian looking folk look my way. I eye them back and there's a mutual feeling of temproary understanding because I've seen the Godfather films. You broke my heart Fredo, I get a kick out of that line. Sleeping with the fishies.
But I'm terribly ill about now.
That's when the world smiles on me and Britney swells in the chorus. I see a whole try of these swell little croissants that are dusted with sugar and have a pocket of custard right in the crescent. My mouth waters and my knees buckle in weakness. I'm ten seconds from swooning.
Step in, Russian woman that works the register, Ah hello, Some weather we're having Huh, I said some weather we're having, Yeah can I get six of those croissants?
She boxes them up and I pay a mere three dollars to fulfill my addiction.
Back at home, I tear the box apart like a wild boar and take a beastial chomp out of one, makes me think of that part in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex tilts its head back to swallow the goat.
He's going to eat the goat?
We have ignition. Amazingly, my monstrous delight for these croissants stops at three. I decide rationing the rest will make me happy later on in the day. Its true.
I scour down my room and listen to Britney again.
For fuck's sake, I think, I listen to Britney Spears. Putting that disquieting thought aside, I make my living space look livable. My walls are bare except for an M.C. Escher calander and a Metropolis film poster. It looks too much, though. I like to have clean, vacant walls.
That's probably because I had very cluttered walls when I was younger.
I'm still sick.
Ania's birthday is today but I mustn't mention her gift even thought it is on my mind and potenially liable to spill. I have to pick it up tomorrow, blast, I mutter. I have only so many hit points left for my adventures. My health will not improve. But Ania must be fed goodies, she's very cute.
I steal another croissant while brooding.

Things that I've been told
I can't believe
What I hear about the world
I realize
I'm over protected.

Great song, I think, banging my head to it. Rocks. Something you can take a lot of narcotics to.
I have a cigarette, which Ania would be furious about, pulpit pounding. I digress, when she stops telling folks what to do, I'll stop. I suddenly realize time has run out.
Tonight I'm going to sleep, soundly, hopefully, bat away all the pigeons.
My first journal entry.
Shit, farewells. What to do? I'll do it movie style.

Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, Heather.
Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

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