A wet match and a story for the intellectually extinguished.
Wednesday, 02/25/04 - 2:11 pm.

Today would be (is) George Harrison's 61st birthday. It's funny that I feel so very strongly for someone I never met personally...I feel a little happy and a little achy...more achy than happy, because I'm so sad that he's not around, physically, anymore. But he's always alive in his music and in our memory, isn't he? The neat lad. I love him so much.

The way I've been feeling lately is not neat, on the other hand. I almost cried last night, out of...I can't even find a word. I want to say something, but at the same time, it's like I have nothing to say. It's horrible, I even want to cut myself, in desperation to pour out my heart in anything tangible. And the sole thought of written words of mine, on a piece of paper in my drawer makes me feel futile.

Something's wrong inside of me, I wrote. Because I write how I feel, when I'd rather write something else, something beyond me. I feel so unhappy and uncreative. So...speechless. And it hurts me a lot. I want to scream, I cry over this, I do. I cry because I sit in front of the computer and I hope my mind will vomit something worthwhile, something that'll allow me to reach thousands of people.

I want to do something worthwhile and then die.

I pull my hair, looking for the answer. What's this craving and how in the fucking world can I shut it up? It feels as thought I am onstage, in an empty theather, with no audience, and I'm not even a performer. Empty, useless as that. And I cry about it. I feel I was born with this...burden, and so, I can't do anything about it, I can't destroy it.

I'm reading Prozac Nation again, and this time around it doesn't quite feel like the first time. My mind goes away from the printed words and their meanings, looking for answers for myself and not statements for a generation I don't even feel part of. I was surprised when I found myself putting the book away and saying: yeah, ok, shut up, I've got my own problems.

Head: it just bothers me that you have so much potential, and you're wasting it.

Potential...like frozen microwave meals. I've always liked that word but I hate it when it's used on me. Potential, applied to me, means underdevelopment and incapability to get out od that state. A vulgar wet match.

*sigh* I wrote another story, trying to soothe this aching. It didn't work, and I can't be bothered with titles. But I like the names.


"Josephone Manifesto was a carpenter who lived in a farm, and spent his days under an apple tree in the backyard, writing prose in tongues. Josephone Manifesto, besides being a bold critic of the neoliberalist system, had cleverly made sure that the place where he lived was far away from everything carpenter-wise. As a matter of fact, he lived on the apples that fell off the tree and not from the praiseworthy activity with wood.

Out of his afternoons of prose, a best-seller was born, '20 apple recipes and a desperate radish', which was about 20 recipies using apples and a tale about a fattening radish. From the sales of the book he got enough money to buy fertilizer for his apple tree. They both grew closer to each other, and the apple tree even got a christian name, Applebert.

One day at night, Josephone Manifesto was sleeping in the barn (he had money, but not enough to build a house in his piece of land) and Applebert moved closer to him. Josephone Manifesto was frightened, when he woke up and realized that Applebert had unrooted himself just to speak to him.

'Josephone', said Applebert, 'my time has come'. And he set himself on fire.

Josephone Manifesto didn't say a word, and only watched his beloved tree consume himself in the lout flames of destiny. Dawn arrived and Josephone went to town, not really knowing what to do. He was very hurt for he was suffering the loss of his herbaceous friend.

In town, people came up to Josephone, asking him for autographs. After all, wasn't he the author of the best-seller about apple cooking, which also included a philosophycal essay about individualist nihilism in the shape of the frame of mind belonging to a reflexive fattening radish?

Yes, he was. But Josephone Manifesto never considered his humble writing about a radish with such magnitude, and when someone made the comment, congratulating him for the philosophical content of the essay about individualist nihilism in the shape of the frame of mind belonging to a reflexive fattening radish, Josephone Manifesto suffered an embolism and spent three days in coma, until Applebert came to pick him up and took him up to Mr. Elysian's Fields, to apple around in dead tongues for the rest of the eternity.

It was all written in the stars".

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