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February 28, 2001 +
See, the thing is, I don't want this to be a diary.
I won't deny that my writings could be more compelling if I said more here. And I certainly enjoy other folks' online screeds, from Elan's testing for the Real World to Catherine's physical therapy sessions to Jami's blowjob techniques. (Especially Jami's blowjob techniques.)
But I'm an intensely private person; for every comment I share publicly there are three (or 300) thoughts I refuse to air. Not to mention that some year-old diary-style entries have come back to haunt me, and I'm not in the business of intentionally angering my friends. I have to temper myself.
And that's just the thing. My best writing comes as critique, and in diary style, a critique is bound to inflict pain. (Read Harriet the Spy if you want to experience it.) So rather than share my mind with the world, I put a heavy filter on it all. It truly is better that way.
If it makes you feel any better, my life is going well. My friends are great, my family is happy as can be, and I've got a wonderful new girlfriend.
Sorry if I'm a little obtuse or boring these days. I'll do some more storytelling in the springtime, I promise.
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February 15, 2001 +
As a matter of fact, yes, I did have a happy Valentine's Day.
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February 13, 2001 +
Ode to the Motherfucker Who Stole My Pants (with apologies to Keats). (also available here)
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Takest my corduroy Diesel pants from my locked locker at the New York Sports Club at 91st and 3rd and charged $350 on my Visa card and made off with $300 in cash and my license and my keys and my day planner, you motherfucker.
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February 6, 2001 +
So the real question is not, Can I, but rather, Should I really?
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We talk and we talk and we talk and we talk and we talk.
And I love it and love it and love it and love it and love it.
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February 1, 2001 +
Life lesson of the week: Complaining about coworkers to coworkers only serves to drag the complainer down to the same level of disappointment as the complainee. (In these instances, I was neither party, hence the learning opportunity.)
Below-the-radar complaints solve no problems, either. Better to swallow hard and press on, or to suggest alternatives to someone who can help resolve a difficult situation. Cattiness is a hoot, but it's counterproductive.
Growing up is no fun.
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