Today has been the most postalot day I have ever had. Eight entries, children--I have scoured out my mind. Feels good and clean now. I had many dark and wretched and secret and personal thoughts that I had to put down and somehow, diaryland has ruined me for any other kind of journal writing. I need my little text box. I need my purple member's page. I find their existence reassuring. I find it soothing to place my troubled thoughts here and in my secret diary which no one will read except fleetingly or accidentally. It's the whole message in a bottle thing I suppose. No great revelation there. I also find it soothing that even in the midst of such turmoil I have to clear enough space in my mind to fiddle with the diaryland stuff--html, links, buttons, text-boxes, etc. I can't huff and heave and cry my eyes out while attempting to set up my gold member stats tracker. Luckily.

Also? Part of the reason I keep posting is my vast discontent with the last week's worth of entries here. I keep posting to cover them up but I keep hating what I post. Ms. Molu and the Viscious Circle.

I talked for a bit with Brother Joe earlier. He's 22. He lives with my folks. He's an artist--well, illustrator is probably a better title. He went to his first party this weekend. Ah Joe. He's definitely the most innocent of us all. He's got a ton of friends, but they are all rather sweet and nerdy and innocent. He said it was a redneck party and he felt extremely uncomfortable. We talked about how racist Floridians are. It's awful. And it's not like it's a class thing or a southern thing or any of that. I think it's a Florida trash thing. Ain't just the rednecks who spout that garbage. It's the sons and daughters of doctors. It's the rich cheerleaders and the smartie pants valedictorians. Really, I have a healthy distrust of all Florida folk on this count. I lived there too long.

I remember in 6th grade I went to church with this girl. She was new and we were in all the same classes at school. At church she talked about what a shame all the racism was and how it made her uncomfortable to be around it so much and she always went out of her way to be friends with people of all colors. I should have known she was not to be trusted. The sanctimonious ones are always the biggest liars. You know the rest of the story, I'm sure. She whispered horrible racist things in the right ears around school and got herself crowned queen of the popular bitches.

In 7th grade our history teacher, in our gifted American History class, taught us about the Civil War by showing us Gone With the Wind. I am not lying. I am not lying when I tell you she ran the only two black kids out of the gifted program with taunts and insults (about their fucking hair and their fucking clothes) and underhanded grade sabotaging. I am still ashamed for all of us when I think about it. I felt so ashamed every day in that class. I felt powerless and I hated Ms. Twiford. That was her name. Remember it. I quit the stupid gifted program too that year.

It makes me sick to hear white people talk about how uncomfortable they are around black people. Fuck you. I'm uncomfortable around just myself. Get the hell over it.

Uh. I need to shut the hell up, don't I? Who's sanctimonious now, my little friend? Moving on.

Fucking hell. Fucking camping trip planning hell. J-bird just wrote and said he may still be bringing Annetta. J-bird, was this not already discussed my love? I'm not going again. That's it. I can't afford it anyway. Plus I'm an agoraphobe. I fear travel. I have written of this before. It's still true.

Bauer wrote me this long convoluted email about his alter ego. He also attached a poem that his alter ego (her name is Maya. She has a last name too but I'm keeping that to myself.) wrote. How very interesting. Except for the part where it's not.

Oh good lord I'm a jerk today. You'll have to excuse me now. I'm in self-imposed exile.