diana (me) -- this website's owner/operator; 15/f


patsy -- poet and dreamer; 16/f


meredith -- humorist and saint; 16/f


him -- hunter and listener; 16/m


'fred' -- counselor and taxi; 17/m




05:18;   I'm out of town for today and maybe tomorrow.
More later.


15:45;   An evil person came to my door this afternoon.
Me: "Hello?"
Him: "Yes, I was wondering -- is that your Chevette out front?"
Me, flustered: "Yes."
Him: "Oh, well, your parents said for me to fix it and I need the keys."
[Side note: The car is old. The car is beautiful. The car, as far as I know, never needed a speck of repair. I am paranoid.]
Me: "I don't have the keys."
[Side note: I am lying.]
Him: "Oh? It's your car and you don't have the keys? I'm joking anyway. Have you ever heard of Cancun?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "Does it look like fun? Huh? Ever see that stuff on MTV about Cancun?"
Me: "Ye- I don't watch that much tv."
[Side note: The tv is on behind me. Not obvious.]
Him: "Oh, well it's fun. You know what fun is, right?"
[Side note: I could've smacked the anonymous guy at this point.]
Me: "Yes."
Him: "Well, I'm selling edible underwear. Do you own any edible underwear?"
Me, flustered: "No, sorry."
Him: "No, don't be sorry. Here." [Proceeds to hand me a catalogue full of magazines.] "Did you think I was serious? No, really, I'm selling magazines. Do you get any of these magazines? Seventeen, perhaps?"
Me: "I hate Seventeen. It's very fake."
Him: "Oh - well, what magazines do you read?"
Me: "Good ones. Rolling Stone."
Him: "Oh." [Phone rings in my house, and I close the door in his face.]
[Side note: I am mentally praying and thanking God.]

06:49;   It's been twenty years.


21:55;   There is this large cathedral downtown -- masterfully built, with large arches and golden colors decorated throughout the building. It was being reopened recently due to redecoration, and I attended an event to celebrate this. It was a Catholic church, and I am not Catholic. There were pews that were freshly-polished and floors that were recently scrubbed and the ceilings looked as if they were painted only minutes before I arrived.
I sat down in a pew, and I watched the singers sing. I watched the people enter the church, gawking at its height and marvelling over the brightness that it made you feel. I shifted my feet, resting my right leg over my left. Left over right.
After the performance, I hugged the singers. I walked down the aisles, gently touching the edges of the walnut-colored pews. It was all so beautiful that it was if I would burst.
And then I saw it. A camera, there, above a doorway. What would be stolen from such a beautiful place like this? A Bible? A hymns book? Why would someone even try to do something as stupid as this, at such a beautiful sancuatary?
It baffled me. It scared me. And worst of all, the age-old beauty and design of the church suddenly disappeared.

06:44;   Currently: (last week's)
Reading: Night, by Elie Weisel (just finished)
Watching: nothing of great interest
Listening: "Again" by Janet Jackson
Obsessing: Merle Oberon, Anne Boleyn in Henry VIII


18:22;   I deleted old favorite emails that have been laying around. They range from webstars complimenting certain entries to graphics of hula-hoops to break-up letters ("I don't know what to [think] about us but I think we need some time apart to think this whole thing over"). It's crazy going down the so-called "memory lane" to see all of this crazy stuff that I've kept over two years' time.
I already feel guilty for deleting half of it.

16:49;   God bless.

06:53;   Winter is getting close now - it's only in a few weeks, 19 days. I'm not really all that thrilled about Christmas this year - I know what I got, I know what I won't. It's too simple to figure out. And, plus, there's the difficulty of choosing.
The difficulty of choosing what to buy my friends for Christmas. There's Him, there's Meredith, there's Patsy, there's "Fred", there's (obligatory, not my choice) amnesia chick, there's another aquaintence that I have yet to name. And I have no idea what to buy anyone, save for Meredith. It's all too obvious of what I'm getting her.
Speaking of these "Freds" and Patsys and Hims in my life -- I'm debating whether or not to change that around, just so I can keep things straight of who's who and what's what, and just make it seem more convenient to say Kieran (the real name) instead of "Fred" (the alias), and so on. It's being debated, but I don't think that Patsy (Whitney) or Meredith (formally known as Her; Megan) will enjoy the idea of seeing their names in full-view of the internet. Whereas with everyone else, who doesn't - ironically enough - have a link, it won't matter one bit.
This is just an idea of mine - somehow I doubt that I'll go through with it and start using real names. (If I did, however, I will have to put a page on who's who and such.)


06:34;   They are building a bridge along the way. One of the idiots dropped a crane, and it hit an electric pole; thus, the pole was sent into the river that the bridge was going over. Not only did our island lose power, but every other island ending up doing so as well. So, from approximately 1 pm until 8:30 pm, Tybee, Wilmington, Whitemarsh (pronounced wit-marsh; common error), and Talahi Island were without power. Unfortunately, Meredith, Patsy, and I live on one of the islands mentioned. And, unfortunately, we had to stay in our homes and do nothing for seven-point-five hours except for watch the sky get dark and the streetlights sit there in a pit of darkness. Woo-hoo.
I don't entirely know what occurred at Meredith or Patsy's house during that time period. All that I know is that I spent half the time playing with a toy of my brother's, the other half was playing MadLibs and a slightly different version of I'm Going on a Picnic (both died down after I started screaming "electricity"; at this time, I was going crazy). The laptop was not used, and we spent half our evening next to the warm fireplace.


06:45;   I didn't take a shower this morning because I ended up taking one yesterday. My face feels tight without me having a shower this morning, and I guess I'll end having to go into my bathroom and scrubbing my tired face and trying to make it feels like I had taken a long shower again. It won't be the same, of course.
Not taking a shower in the morning also makes it more prone for me to be tired through-out the day. To hell with the statistics of breakfast being a waker-upper. It's all about the shower.
Maybe the fact that it's Monday morning that's making me tired. But I am forcing my fingers to type something - anything - out, just to say that I finally wrote something up-to-date and personal about my life, rather than quoting my private journal or Ghandi. There was, of course, one exception to all of that, but I don't assume that it fully counted to be an entry. Consider it a filler entry. You'll eventually forgive me for it.


20:56;   Tale as old as time / True as it can be / Barely even friends / Then somebody bends / Unexpectedly / Just a little change / Small to say the least / Both a little scared / Neither one prepared / Beauty and the Beast / Ever just the same / Ever a surprise / Ever as before / Ever just as sure / As the sun will rise / Tale as old as time / Tune as old as song / Bittersweet and strange / Finding you can change / Learning you were wrong / Certain as the sun / Rising in the east / Tale as old as time / Song as old as rhyme / Beauty and the Beast / Tale as old as time / Song as old as rhyme / Beauty and the Beast
- "Beauty and the Beast" (from the movie)

13:50;   He sits there, astonishingly beautiful. I can tell that he is sad, even though he may not even want to admit it. And here I sit on the opposite end of the dark-fabricated futon, watching his blue eyes glare around the room, finally resting on me. I have nothing to say that could enhance his mood, so I just look up from the keyboard and smile every few minutes. It doesn't help, I don't think. Neither does saying that I love him. Because, well, there is something wrong between us. What, I do not know. Have I done something wrong? Have I not treated him with the amount of respect that he (as well as everyone I meet) deserves.
I speak. "Are you watching me type?" He nods in a style that makes it seem that his head weighs more than reality. I continue, "Isn't it fascinating?" I cannot, of all things, amuse him. Something in him is dying - is it his youth decaying away? Or is it something far more deeper than those teenage blues?
He is unshaven, his hands clamped together with his chin balanced on top. He is a thinker, even though people assume that he's uneducated. Deep inside - perhaps not as deep as you think - there lies this beauty that is waiting to come out… this mental beauty. The kind of beauty that recites poetry made up on the spot; the kind that cares more about the earth rather than a shotgun. I know that the beauty - that kind of beauty, which is different from his current mental beauty - is in there. No, it is not a lifetime goal to find it… I probably never will. But, as I quote Angelina Jolie, "It ain't gonna stop me from trying."
- from private journal, 11/15/00

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