November 30th, 2005
6:33PM

the medecine isn't working. help help the medecine isn't working! crying all the way through a painfully short dinner. isolation like sititng in the corner of my parkingspace like this yellow perimeter marks the only land I will ever possess. i would kill for painkillers. its getting worse and i'm confident that if I were to throw up I would die, completely die. but its okay because i cant swallow enough to throw up anyway.

November 29th, 2005
9:54PM

I HAVE TONSILITIS WTFOMG

post to the guestbook by mark.

save september update.
-dec 7, just us cafe Halifax, 7:30.
-dec 15, performance center horton high, 2:10PM. 2/3$
-dec 27th, someplace in wolfville, sometime in the evening. 5$

my fingers smell like pizza, even though i have swollen tonsils i can still make pizza

November 27th, 2005
9:58AM

cooooool, I cant breathe. inhaling and exhaling sounds like purring because my throat is swelling shut. i also sound COMPLETELY different when I talk. kind of like that whiny girl in Saw 2 or Paige from Degrassi.

does this mean I cant see you today?

November 26th, 2005
9:46PM

I LOVE PIZZA HA SO FUCK EVERYBODY ELSE

10:07AM

nobody is happy that I have this job. wtf people. specifically, wtf mom and dad. they've been ragging on me for the last YEAR to get a job and even when I get hired, they still nag at me to... get another job? wtf! just what the FUCK!.

personal hygiene is a waste of time. hopes are worth shit. wish I could wake up in the morning and be excited about something for once.

monday.

November 25th, 2005
9:03PM

omggg i got the job. and i have such a headache and so much nausea, i dont think i will ever eat again

10:59AM

I was reading about bird flu this morning and realized that I was tearing off pieces of my lip. I think my lip will be a way to tell when I have been scaring myself. More than half of the people who get it, die; but that's not everyone. Maybe you develop immunity once you get it and fight it off.

my stupid swollen gland wont go down and it's getting hard to swallow. hope I dont have mono.

ps. daniel. jamiroquai. wtfomg, i like.

November 24th, 2005
4:08PM

there will never be another nov 24, 2005.

this is one day in history that will go down, or maybe it wont. either way its gone. every second is gone. the time it takes you to read this is erasing time, seconds, minutes, that won't ever come back. will eventually be forgotten. there will be more november the 24ths, but there will never be a november 24th 2005. there will only be this one.

je vais vous attendre, je le jure.

November 22nd, 2005
10:31PM

illness is amusing. there is a large swollen gland on the side of my neck. it is fun to rub my fingers over, but pushing on it creates some weird sort of psychological pain, sort of like when you are putting a piercing into an infected hole and although it doesnt hurt too much you know it must be disgusting, whatever is in there.

hunger is also an illness. it is chronic because no matter what you do to satisfy it, it will always return. and then there comes the craving for something disgustingly overcaloric and drenched in fat or sugar or salt (god I could go for one of those gigantic pretzels they make in the mal), and in blind hunger it is so easily difficult to distinguish between what will satisfy and what will guilt you.

I wish my brother were home to eat all the ice cream and ramen.

November 18th, 2005
7:31PM

glasses on the ground. they are dusty and old and broken. style changes so much faster than vision requirements, and so they have become outdated, with the leopard style frames and gigantic lenses.

but, oh, let me promise you. when there are things you want to hide, they will do the job so much better than the 20$ fashionable kind.

tonight is a night for a hangover face. if I am not mistaken it is the second one this week. the most interesting thing one can remark about a hangover face is that it is not caused by a hangover, oh no. the look of the morning after an alcohol binge is much better represented by eyes squinted shut, face buried in bedsheets, hair spread like fire across the pillow.

the hangover face is sported at funerals and the sort of weddings where you have to bite your lip to not regurgitate accusations when the priest asks the people to Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace. it is the face best recreated by being punched in the eye. dark glasses hood up. sure you look unfashionable but you know nobodys really looking anyway.

hangover face (hang'over fas), n: facial swelling and discoloration due to excessive crying brought on by emotional distress, but labelled as being due to excessive drinking so that one may deceive others into believing that they are indeed, emotionally stable.

in explanation let me begin with the statement that NOBODY READS THIS BULLSHIT ANYMORE ANYWAY. I can pour myself out on here like the overdramatic immature child I am, and nobody will comment. I can spend hours writing every word I could possibly use to try to impact you but there is still an "X" button on the top bar of this window. I could basically write on here, in large bold letters, a proclamation of a soon to be suicide, and there would be nothing to suggest that anyone had read
a single letter
. but the second I decide to badmouth anyone, the exerpt will be printed out multiple times, and at my expense I will arrive at school when all my friends hate me. and no, you will claim that you were the victim. that it was you who lost your freedom of speech, that it was you who lost your friends. and years later it will be spoken of and worn down so many times that it loses all value to the ears of eavesdroppers but.
secretly, I will still be offended.
in conclusion, this is no longer a website. I dont know what it is but it is not the new piczo and it is not the new myspace. it similarly will not serve to be an extension of an advertisement about a girl who plays guitar and sings. I think this has become moreso a diary of someone slowly going insane.

over the weeks it seems my writings on this page have become less and less coherant. there are fewer rational details about exactly who I saw on what night and what movie we rented. I have stopped documenting these things. because they are not of importance. there is no more purpose in remembering the minute details of my past because that will not allow me to progress forward, and I am not of age yet where I have nothing but years behind me and an end ahead. and in a way this cryptic new way of writing has become a perfect cover from all of the people who do not know me. they will not understand the words and they will be like a separate language.

because everytime I put a pen to paper I get the feeling that nobody will understand how much it means but me.

I estimate that every single person who reads this entry will have no sweet clue what I am talking about. I wont assure you that you shouldn't get hung up on it because there is no doubt that you will disregard this anyway. I will merely say, that I dont know what I'm talking about either.

I think I'm going to go to sleep now.

November 16th, 2005
10:20PM

eyelids heavy. even in the dark your features are perfect.

November 14th, 2005
7:03PM

how to make it look like you haven't been crying.

- find dark sunglasses and put on your hangover face. if anybody sees you they'll just assume your crappy mood is due to the effects of Last Night.
- remove and reapply. mascara streaks are a dead give away, fresh eyeliner is a sharp distraction.
- stick face in cold water to take swelling down.
- avoid Copeland and Bright Eyes for at least 20 minutes. just because Conor Oberst can sympathize does NOT mean it will help
- lock yourself in your room and avoid all contact with the human race. after all, if you were crying before, why did you bother stopping

(die wishing you could feel it too.)

November 13th, 2005
1:29PM

je suis son firefly! <3 kekeke. goooodddd weekend.

November 12th, 2005
10:58PM

I am too awkward to be ironic.

dear you,
I am computer.
this is how I talk.
made for you.
I will destroy for you.
but as you sleep
I will destroy only you.

1011 010,
1 01 00101110.
0010 01 001 1 1010.
1010 000 101.
1 0011 0101111 101 101.
011 10 101 10110
1 0011 0101111 0100 101.

November 11th, 2005
7:43PM

shallow. why does the entire human race have to be so goddamned shallow, pumping ourselves full of medecines and personal remedies. how have we convinced ourselves that a few hours of intoxication are clearly the perfect excuse for all of lifes problems? isn't the brutal hangover the next morning a clear indication that you're only making things worse

but I guess its all worth it if you have a story to tell.
dear jeff,
if there was ever a point you once had. I feel like I understand it tonight

November 10th, 2005
4:18PM

I will read about bird flu every day so that I will not be so horrified when hundreds of millions of people die of it next year.

to improve your immune system.
vitamin supplements do not work unless you are old or malnourished.
eat many food groups.
exercise regularly.
over exercise hurts immune system.
being sad for a long time hurts immune system.
get enough sleep.
smoking REALLY hurts your immune system.

3:12PM

the entire mass rises. standing in perfect lines but in an array of heights, staring out at many points. the sound of breath smothered by the sound of rain pelting endlessly on the rooftops. do sixty seconds of trying not to laugh really generate acceptance and empathy for the people who have died in ways which we cannot comprehend? they deserve valour, but we are not capable of giving it.

the girls giggle in the row in front and they talk through the minute of silence. but its okay because I remembered the color of her shirt and the pattern of the roots on her head, and judging by her mainstream style I can be confident that she will always have roots on her head.

(I look even though I know you arent there.)

November 6th, 2005
10:07PM

the room in denton hall makes my brain anguish. it is like a million cameras taking pictures in a dark room, consecutive slides, so that it is nothing but one long blazing twitching flash. at the same time it is both so dark and so bright, so hot and so freezing, so silent and yet so violently loud. the effect is a dilemma; whether to pass out, vomit, or partake in not one but both, in which case the order is also pressing.

when they play happy music it makes me sad because I want to always feel happy. I hate boats and planes and the atlantic ocean. time steals everything. feeling like asphyxiation, and yet I want to share the oxygen I breathe. id kill for midnight phone calls

9:06AM

A SEARCH FOR SUGAR PILLS.

too many nightmares. I have trouble sleeping, I wake up and speak to people who aren't there anymore. and when I sleep my dreams are no longer pleasant.

this time I was taken on a last minute family trip, somewhere in the middle east. a resort. there were palm trees and the sky was dark and streaked with shades of blue and there was an inground pool. something about war. I was desperate to get to a phone. an internet connection. some way to tell somebody where I was, if they needed to find me.

I went with a few guards who were frequenting the resort while the rest of my family, considered to be wealthy and worth saving, was escorted away by more guards. the guards around me told me that the only telephone was in this tall tower at the edge of the property, but the problem was that that zone of the propety was much more lax in the security and was part of a zone in which shots were frequently fired. of course you can imagine my trauma at such an idea, and I tried to get back to my family. but they were gone now, taken to a safe place. I'd missed my chance.

I cant really remember what happened after that... it gets hazy. hiding in cheap hotel rooms in the dark with the blinds tightly shut.

somehow it skips forward and we're back home. and my mother is in the kitchen and there is an unbelievably strong rift between us, doubtless because she fucking stranded me to get shot in a warzone on a family trip. except now the theme of the movie has strayed to a stephen king book. the one where the aliens take over the planet. my mother sitting at the kitchen table and i'm in the nearby bathroom shouting at her. daniel is there, I am reading letters outloud that never were exchanged, rubbing in whatever small guilt my mother possessed for leaving me.

there is blood on the faucet and I am scrubbing it diligently off. somehow everything else disappears, it is merely this misshappen faucet that I am cleaning smears of dried blood off of. and I know what this means, the infection that is in my house now. and the longer I scrub the more real it becomes, the psychological conclusion dripping into my blood stream like anaesthetic. there is a problem here.

went to my room... it had a feeling that wasn't right. my cat was sleeping on the sofa, I knew it was her. I picked her up and she miauled loudly. her ear and the side of her face was caked with blood. I brought her to my mother and told her the infection was here and dropped the cat at her feet. it was a horrible thought to have to kill her, but the infection was in her now, and would kill her soon enough anyway.

just like dream catcher. why do so many of my dreams involve stephen king plots. i will never understand it.

I woke up with my cat meowing in my bedroom. I called her over, she curled up on my hip (never ceasing to find the most awkward places to sleep so that I wake up with severe back pains in the morning).

half awake half asleep. the most easily influenced state where dreams aren't quite dead and reason isn't fully awoken yet. and I debated whether or not my cat was infected.

we will all die of the infection anyway. everything dies. people are small and insignificant. we're a sentence, human life is just one phrase, one line on one page of one book in a gigantic library. a library in just one building, on just one street, in one city, where there could very well be multiple libraries with other books and other pages and other phrases.

in this phrase, you are not a word. you are not a letter. you are not even a comma or a period or a question mark. these are reserved for the faults we've made, the things we've destroyed, the people we have supported who turned everything to shit.

we are the white fibre in the background. in-sig-nif-i-cant. nothing you can ever say or do will ever matter, because you will die, and everyone who witnessed you or heard you will die too. and even the books it was written in will someday rot and become obscure and unneeded, and even the tombstones where the dead lay will erode and return to the earth. there have been billions of people before you, billions of people with you and billions of people will follow. there is nothing you can do to impact these people because even your most valiant efforts will never be worth anything. nothing is worth anything. all our monetary systems and emotions have overrun us. there are bigger things but no one seems to see outside of the box.

there are not enough metaphors to express the uselessness of the human race, which has been constantly underlined by our horrible choices and destructive policies. even this planet is insignificant, surrouned by many others. even this galaxy is insiginificant in comparison to the vast nothingness that is space, that is purposely undefined, because as human beings we do not deserve to know what space is or why it is so endless or what is beyond the end of space.

and the thing that makes it all worth nothing...

time

people < earth < galaxy < universe < time.

it heals all wounds and perpetuates all infections. runs our lives in precise structure. we as a civilization are so focused on the concept of time, being on time, having the right timing. time is nothing but a mesurement of how things change. and they will always change. time is a theif that steals, breaks and vandalizes everything. it crushes continents and mutates viruses. and though we might evolve it is indefinite that our one biggest enemy will always be time. its not the fight for cancer or a vaccine for every human being. its not a search for perfect human rights or a perfect race or a perfect culture or a perfect language. oppression and conversion are the ultimate wastes of life because time will do nothing but erode all progress, erase all slates.

time is the one disease with no cure.

congratulations for having read thus far. this is an extended interpretation of the thought patterns I sometimes trigger while waking up, watching tv, reading a book. If I come across as indifferent, far away, this will subconsciously always be the reason.

otherwise, I have contented myself in merely appreciating that I get to be a victim of time, that I was born a human being and not a rock. as humans we could never function if we were not so incredibly self absorbed with the small things in our lives. these are the things that keep us sane.

in my dream, I just wanted one phone call

November 5th, 2005
5:23PM

silhouettes of something more beautiful

sidescreen drama. we perpetuate accelerate initiate the sentiment. giving way to laughter and startling the million tiny wings sleeping in the field and giving flight they vacate and uncover a picturesque mosaic, the image that twenty years later I will so fondly recall. behind the wheel I will unsteadily drive to a place I would have regretted instantly if not for the way

the stars were so perfect from the ground

and with aging hands and new complaints, carry myself to sit in the lifeguard seat and imagine the way it felt to feel loved; if not, to stand in the sand where the beautiful wooden structure once stood unwavering, like the shoulders of a parent when you are small and ohsodesperate to see the faces of the people in the parade.

i will never be more proud to be covered in mud, grass, and sand

November 3rd, 2005
8:29PM

band concert tonight. lights are bright in dark eyes. feet tapping rhythmically encased in black shoes, in unison, like the mouths of the choir, chanting, ressurecting, entrancing

and in the lights meets the end in a subtle switch from melodrama to darkness, and silence, complete silence unbroken but by the sound of baited breath.

hope is a disease I cant get out of my skin.

November 2nd, 2005
5:17PM

hey kids, this site is going to be educational today. today we're going to learn about FOOT FETISHES IN CHINA LOLOMFGWTFKKK

so once upon a time in ancient china, some prince was all, omggg my girl has cute small feet. so she was all, im not good enough. OMG LETS MAKE THEM SMALLER! and then the entire chinese population went OMG LETS AL HAVE SMALL FEET SO PRINCES WILL MARRY US KTHXBAI

so when they were really little their mommies would sit them on stools and wrap their feet in bandages, in way that tried to make the ball of their foot touch the heel, which was basically folding it in half. every day they would unbind and bind them tighter until the bones in the foot kind of broke and then remolded into that crushed up half assed shape, and the toes either fell off (which was considered a blessing) or ended up in a really weird row that looks even more deformed than not having toes.

men were really aroused by this whole mutated foot thing. when women tried to walk, which was really painful during the binding process and otherwise really difficult cause, come on, how can you walk if your feet are three inches long, they had this strange kind of swagger. men actually came to like this swagger. this was the swagger of sex.

and even the sex was interesting; ancient chinese manuals show that the preferred place for sexual intercourse was that gnarly little fold between where the ball and the heel of the foot had been mushed together.

even though women couldnt walk they still had to do chores, wtfomgspineless. so theyd have to have rows of chairs going from place to place in their houses so they could kind of scoot from one place to another instead of walking cause then theyd get that swagger and then theyd be a little bit busy while some guy makes love to their foot. which wouldnt really get the laundry done now WOULD IT

in conclusion, the foot binding process was stopped in 1949. which means there could still be some really old chinese women out there with wicked crazy feet. this is what they would look like.

if you read all this.... congratulations you win a free roll of toilet paper.

November 1st, 2005
4:32PM

okay I have things to say now.

firstly, there are some new posts to the guestbook, thanks to jeffrey and carey. and in response to one of said messages, I wishhhh I could make the comment space bigger but its an automatic thingy that I can't change. I'm sort of in the process of learning on how to just make a less automatic thing but I'm really uneducated with computers, sooo...

halloween last night, how the hell is it november today. its not even that cold yet. last night Jeff and Ivan came over (after the boy went home, that is) and we bought candy and watched the Amityville Horror, which was okay but really gross with the girl and the bullet hole fingering forehead thing. I think Daniel told me about it before but I completely forgot about it until it happened, and it was still absolutely morbid. and then john and becky showed up, a rather unexpected surprise.

ps, I had a french test yesterday, where there was an essay question involved. If I prayed a lot I would ask for forgiveness from God for having left it unanswered because I feel guilty about it, like, guts squirming in anxiety kind of guilt. but since I'm not religious, I'll just say, I really fucking hate Mme Primeau's half assed lesson plans. Fail me all you want, I'm still going to turn out bi-fucking-lingual. what the FUCK does Romanticism and Victor Hugo have to do with the french language. NOTHING. It's not even important elements of french history or culture or language derivations. no. its stupid lame obscure bullshit that means absolutely nothing in the massive face of life.

fuck.

math 11 test today, and that was okay. jeff if youre reading this I'm sorry I kept making noises in the beginning. but fuck you fot hitting my dinosaurnhbfgaaksaf

I'm gonna go play flash flash revolution now <3

11:19PM

jhaskhfkasjh i have nothing to say