2003-12-11

weight: 174

What I ate: a cookie for breakfast. (Listen, I can't help it if the cookies were on sale! There was a gigantor bag and it was a dollar!! So don't give me shit about it! Okay?... Isn't it funny that most of this section is spent defending what I eat?) egg on toast for dinner, some crackers. Seriously, that's not alot. I supplemented it with the five cigarettes I had in fifteen minutes for lunch.

What I've done: played on Monster.com, trying to figure out what someone is qualified to do with a BA in theater. It is as I always suspected. Nothing. At least I didn't major in dance. That's even worse, I bet. I couldn't eat a tenth of what I do now. It would be all vodka and cigarettes. Not that that wouldn't be good in its own way. But no sandwiches? I don't know if I want to live in that world.

I also further reorganized my room and found more useless crap I can't bring myself to throw away.

I also further reconstructed the actual site- you know- that one I consistently ignore then suddenly love like a neglected baby.

Somebody found my diary by searching for "Kevin Kehoe." Are there other Kevin Kehoes in the world? Or has the real Kevin Kehoe found my RETRO-DIARIES in which he played a starring role for the first 12 entries? That would be flipping hilarious! Unless he thought it was scary and stalkery... But that would make it even more hilarious!

I'm so sad about the dirtytrashysecretnovel being over. I don't know what to do with my non-internet computer time now. Well, besides obsessively play spider solitaire. Part of me wants to start another novel, but then I get afraid that that one won't get published either. Granted, I've only sent query letters out. And they weren't well-written queries either. Maybe I should take some time and write a kick-ass synopsis and put in a smutty sample scene. I might try that.

Meanwhile, I thought I'd give the world some more "deep and meaningful" poetry from Preteen April. This is circa 1991... or 92. I have no idea. But here you go...

What Do I Want?

I hear sad songs and start to cry.

I never know exactly why.

I reach for something that is not there,

As I bury my tears in my Teddy bear.

[Um, excuse me but... BLECH!]

Some say I'm sad. How can I be?

What I am needing is what I can't see.

Do I want love? Someone of my own?

So that I need not be all alone?

But that might not be what I cry for at night.

It's just not that saddening, unhappy plight.

[Jesus, April! I could have said everything you've said so far with a simple, "I am depressed and need meds."

Maybe I need a good friend really bad.

One who won't hurt me and make me feel sad.

One that I trust, so I can confide.

Who locks up my secrets, no blackmail or bribe.

[Hey, that one doesn't rhyme! And again, try to be concise. "My friends are asswipes who blab crap I tell them."]

My friends hurt my feelings and leave me out.

It makes me cry. I have such doubts.

They never seem to even want me around.

They say "shut up" if I make a sound.

[Then STOP hanging OUT with CAROL!!! For crying out loud! She is NOT your friend! When you hang out with your sister's spoiled brat cronie from down the street, she is NOT going to be your bosom friend. It's pretty safe to say that she will spend a giant percentage of the time pulling your hair and calling you a retard. I mean, common sense! Oh, but I forgot. If you give these things up, there is nothing to be a martyr about. My bad.]

But that may not be what I long for so,

What I am needing is what I don't know.

Sorry. I hated to interrupt such a heartfelt pity-party with my little rant. One thing the RETRO-DIARY has given me is the ability to recognize when I'm indulging in martyrdom. Preteen April had this tendency to do things for people all the time and let them walk all over her and then whine about it all the time. I'd like to think I'm different than that. I have noticed that a crapload of people indulge in the same behavior they did ten years ago. I don't want to be one of those people. I don't want to throw tantrums and play the victim. These things aren't excusable after fourteen or before eighty. I'm trying so hard to be, at least emotionally... and if only outwardly, mature. I have no idea if it's succeeding, but the diaries are helping me recognize what self-destructive traits I haven't yet disposed of.

Um, and that's dope- yo.