Excerpts or: nothing new worth documenting
27 October 2004 at 2:35 pm

September 16, 2003: Sunday finds us in Tacoma, patiently waiting Aaron's turn to be branded a rebel at the Ramada Inn tattoo convention. We drink coffee served by a waitress who, like most hotel servers, has been fucked by life a few too many times. Aaron wears his Jam shirt, too baggy since he lost all his chub when he quit drinking. Adam sports a Ben Sherman -- brand Oi. They shoot the shit:

Anyone: "Remember that Simpson's episode?"
Aaron: "I want to name my kid Aaron"
Adam: "I want to name my kid Giuseppe!"

Hah. Huh huh. Beavis and Butthead and Daria, live.

The participants in this particular convention -- they remind me of everyone else. Cynical, deluded, searching for meaning in motorcyles and ink.

They've run out of packaged cream so I request a glass of milk to dilute the coffee. The waitress laughs in my face and we debate the likeliness of her bringing the goddamn milk. It arrives in a styrofoam cup, like our coffee -- this hotel lacks a considerable amount of pride. I turn back to the discussion.

Adam: "I would cast Sylvester Stallone as you in a movie."
Me: "No, Tony Danza," a throwback to a previous discussion. This brings laughs.
Adam: "Denzel Washington would play me." Adam is hispanic.
Aaron: "Because you are a handsome black man." More laughs and then they break into a rendition of the Hurricane. Aaron's Dylan is anything but flawless.

No matter what those crazy women's magazines tell me, men have proven to be increasingly simple. While they are generally not as overanalytical or overemotional as women, they are hardly another species. They are just as easy to seduce, to dupe, they fall just as hard in love as the most hopelessly romantic female. Their disadvantage is that they are not raised to embrace their emotions as women are. I am proud of the heart on my sleeve -- it covers the chip on my shoulder quite well.

January 20, 2003: Breaking up with Aaron is constantly on my mind.... I'm not sure he knows what love is (I sure as hell don't).... (he went from severe dependency on heroin to severe dependency on me) ... I'm making too many compromises, and he is too.... He does not bring out the best in me; but then, there really is no best of me.... I don't know what I'm doing I don't know what you expect from me I don't nkwo what people thin kof me I don't know if I"m good at anything I don't know I don't know I don't know But I pretend and as long as appearances are kept up I am okay.... I kiss with my eyes open and I stare without shame and your hand on my hip makes me feel like maybe I do love you.... Horrible and contrived: such are my thoughts.

Anyway. I saw a guy who looked like a guy who would come into the bank all the time and it made me miss that community. Wallingford was such a little suburb, everyone knew everyone, and we were the local bank and I was the local bank teller. And that was nice. Here I'm anonymous. I'm not going to recognize anyone at the store or walking down the street. No one's going to say, "Don't I know you from somewhere?" because I'm never anywhere. It wasn't so bad. It never is in hindsight.

All the girls (at work) laughed yesterday when they asked how I came to be so photogenic and I told them: I used to get really stoned in my dorm room and take pictures of myself to see which facial expressions looked best. Old habits die hard.

one year ago today: "the goonies r' good enough for us"

two years ago today: nothing.

three years ago today: blah blah blah.

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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.