I would if I could
04 September 2004 at 8:58 pm

When I was young, my father gave me two words that he wished I would never use. He went so far as forbidding me from using them and would mock me when they accidentally slipped out. Those two words were "basically" and "totally." Apparently, my dad hates extraneous adverbs.

I had a slight epiphany the other night when I was thinking about how obsessed I am with why things are the way things are. I have a pretty good idea about why I am the way I am, a pretty good idea about why my mum is the way she is, but I don't know why my dad is the way he is. I don't know why he ever became an alcoholic. I know why Aaron became an alcoholic -- he found father figures in his older punk rock friends. But I don't know why my dad started drinking and never stopped. I don't know if he had a horrible childhood, if he was beaten or made fun of. Until I knew my dad was a fuck up, I thought he was a great man. He's terribly handsome and did very well in school, played sports all through college until he blew his knee out on the basketball court, was terrifically funny and smart and had a great job. I don't know why he threw everything -- his family, his career, his money -- away and I don't know that I want to know. But maybe I would know more about me if I knew more about him.

I'm watching "A Star is Born," the special edition, and I think that I'm going to die before this movie is over. BE A LITTLE LONGER, MOVIE. DO IT.

My shoulder is fucking killing me. I don't know what I ever did to it, but it's pissed. I keep rubbing Badger stuff on it and it's not doing a goddamn thing.

I got a facial today. She told me I had mild acne and I was so upset. I used to have perfect skin and now, now I have mild acne. I blame pollution. Anyway, she spent about fourteen hours extracting shit from my face and people, that was pain. It felt like I was getting every one of my pores pierced repeatedly. Afterwards she said, "Well, you're kind of rosey," which is esthician talk for, "Jesus Christ, lady, what's wrong with your face?" I've been cowering inside all day as a result. I think it's normal enough for me to risk going outside, except the fucking elevator is broken AGAIN (conveniently on the day I decide to go grocery shopping by myself to purchase gallon jugs of milk and cranberry juice among other things) and I'm not really feeling the seven-floor walkup quite yet. Though I am supposed to go dancin with Sam later (she said, "This is the year we get friends!" I think she's sick of her being my only friend in the city). I have my outfit all picked out but I have yet to receive a call. Poop.

So, to sum everything up: basically, hmm, ow, ow, and poop.

P.S. Somebody stole my layout, the layout I stole (with permission) from someone else. How fucked up is that? I mean, don't give me credit. Out of the hundreds of thousands of diaryland diaries out there, what are the chances I would ever have come across it had she not 'fessed up?

one year ago today: nothin.

two years ago today: nothin.

three years ago today: "Good combination: tuna salad on crackers, mandarin oranges, and chai. Bad combination: curly hair, split ends, black dye."

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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.