09.26.00 - 17:34:42

I've been badgered into writing in this again by my fan club.

All two of them.

Right now, I'm trying to decide how best to do a Miss America wave - you know, elbow-elbow, wrist-wrist - and wondering why people find it easier to retreat from the intellectual world rather than engage it.

It's the only place I've ever felt really at home.

I'm also wondering why people cybersex with (porno)graphic intensity and regularity, producing rather twitchy little spews of letters that resemble nothing so much as a magnetic poetry set cut up and remade by a thirteen-year-old madman dreaming about Cheryl Tiegs, knee-hi white gym socks, and a really big bottle of rubber cement.

I suppose I could rephrase that maundering thought in simpler terms: Why are most people more stupid than me? Why are the stupidest people the least likely to realize this?

I have another question. Why does someone have my name taken on both Geocities and Tripod? I wanted to make a goddamned home page with a buncha cool links and whatnot so all two of you reading this now could, like, bask in the presence of my prose even when I'm not around.

Unfortunately, someone has stolen my (cyber) identity. Now, I need someplace to do my page! I want it to be easy, too. I need to get frontpage or figure out how to use frontpage express. I'm tired of handcoding html, especially since I'm really not that fabulous at it. Had I a) a faster computer and b) a faster connection it would probably be easier. Alas.

Alas.

Alas.

...illness does funny things to you. There must be some point of diminishing returns between your first depths of suffering and continued sickness where you just stop being the maundering, self-involved, pouty idiot that I become when sick.

Whoa - you say - Lizzyfer.

You?

Selfish?!?

It was very decent of you to be shocked, I'm pleased and flattered by your unyielding faith in my superior selflessness and goodness, but I think we're all adults here.

(...and if we aren't, get outta my diary. I might wanna talk about something unfit for innocent eyes. That includes you, Louis, too. smirks )

I'm a piggish little baby when I'm sick. I'm horrid - I am the definition of horrid - the Oxford English Dictionary has a picture of my sniffling, coughing head beside the word horrid, and nothing else because I am quintessentially horrid.

When I'm sick - I want to be someone's (...yes, the confession again, and it doesn't sound so romantic anymore, does it? Welcome to the sleekly intellectual tawdry little corner of my soul...) sun.

I want the world to revolve around me.

I am consumed by whatever is happening to me.

The walls around me become the limits of the world, and I prefer to talk about me. me. ME, damnit.

It's the primal urge for your mother in the middle of the night when you cannot sleep and some sodium vapor light outside your apartment window is buzzing on and off and sending these sick little pulsing striations across her eyes across the ceiling across your sick-headachy mind and goddamnit, why isn't she there?

Isn't that her, like, job or something?

Couldn't you have - for just a moment, just a day, just a week - someone else entirely focused upon you again? Someone to pet, haunt, and hold you, scold you and pamper you, just for another few days? Someone to scoot into orbit around you, pleased for even the faint light you (...sick, selfish, whiny...) offer 'em without reciprocation?

So.

Yeah.

Job's open. That's the description.

I'm signing off now, because my eyeballs feel like grapes peeled by hot razors. I think if the Ton-Ton Macoute (however you spell it) were to pick me up right now, they would stand a seriously good chance of turning me into a zombie.

Three hours to go.

If I didn't hafta think I could make it.

If only I didn't hafta think.

PS - I just said "It's all good," to someone on the phone in a professional capacity.

How sick is that? My GOD I'm tired.