if youre reading this, call me. i don't care what time of day it is or how long after today you read this. i really miss you.

Alice, sweet poor Alice alone on your throne in your palace you drank from that chalice? and you shrank... toward the floor Nobody can see you anymore you fell through the cracks will you ever get back? Now though, that you are so small The world does not seem so big at all Miss Alice, who possibly could save you from this dark cave you've thrown yourself down the black drinking up light and you choke or you drown Who might ever find you? and may I remind you, young Alice This world's blinded to anyone smaller, and each man is taller than all the other men around ...it doesn't seem as if you'll be found How is it there Underland heart keeps time like thunder and lightning up your veins, a flood of blood, and raining light illuminates and erases the pain Everything thats underhand you reach out to grasp all the spaces between the s p a c e s Occupying (or not) the places you thought to be real Its hard to feel when you are gone the world is not Alice, could you come back if you missed earth a lot? its become habit chasing the rabbit falling more off track do you want to be found? or to find your way back? Are you still in the ground, fallen between the cracks? in the particles of light lost in the black shake break take a bite, make it alright Swallow this, A l i c e . . . . take three or four or more and get back to me One makes you tall, the next again small, the third, you'll fall if after you're lucky you'll be able to crawl Do you want to be found? Fight tooth-and-nail to stay around? it doesnt seem to matter what amount because nobody else is keeping count

not only am i still here, but i seem to be the only one. i am a incredible, scattered mess/work of art right now. peaces. i am volunteering at a medical marijuana collective. and still showing my naked body to "men" that don't want to pay. jobs i do and dont want. i'd make a comment about the economy, but that's not really it. everyone in america is here because of war. fuck war and fuck america. i'm sorry, native americans. i'm sorry, god. once i thought that there was no way out. now i think maybe i am out. and everyone else is still in. what i can say for certain is that i've gained 92348 strength, 4072 moxie and 62826 mysticality. follow me.

i wonder what happened to all those people i had forged typed connections with. and if they ever wonder about me. also... what's the deal with myspace? a website full of people determined to remind me when i worked so hard to forget them. it's only people i knew in "real" life trying to invade my computer reality. no thanks

the accountable one has lost track of the numbers. im beginning to think i haven't made any progress at all. but can we ever be sure of anything? i guess that in itself is a start. release and freedom comes from realizing that any binding chain is only internal.

sitting here, looking back on the last few years, i try to remember how many people told me it would tear out my soul. and did it? i really don't know. i don't actually remember ever really having a soul that i felt was truly worth holding onto. was i ever not bitter and cynical? do any of the people that really know me ever remember me being friendly and happy? or even enjoying my existence for longer than twelve hours? who or what decides happiness isn't just a boredom or a flat-out refusal to kill myself? and why haven't i done that yet? as taboo as everyone thinks it is, i really believe that suicide (along with abortion) are mankind's gift to itself. but do i think i belong in that group that really has nothing to offer other than a few thoughts and leaving some space on earth for a few more idiots? i want to do something about this, but i have no clue as to what. and there is nothing to be done, really, but sit it out and wait for the balance to continue to work its way through the universe. but there still sits this question, solid and heavy in my mind, blocking any other progress... and what would any progress i might make really be for? humanity and me are both going to be destroyed; so i should enjoy myself while i'm here. my problem is the circle itself, that i cannot make myself enjoy this carousel, it spins too fast to even notice what is going on outside the blurry stream of colours and faces. we are stuck, with no way off. and i'm going to be sick.

screwy strange world i tried to escape, only to end up in yet another screwier stranger sadder world. and how am i happier, without any of the things i know would make me happy? how am i nicer, hating and fretting as i do? or am i the only one who is falling for this lie? i only see myself through a lined-up mirror. maybe these are all just delusions. questions i've always asked and somehow accepted that i would never receive an answer. but i won't stop asking. how could i? a lot of you have taught me a lot. and i never once considered that anyone may come across this diary and take it or me seriously. because i am not serious. not serious. unserious in fact. i see everything and nothing.

phase four and a half of my life: i'm actually redesigning... a reprogram if you will. a mega-bitch and humanitarian. i'm really so over shallow stupid whores willing to sell every part of theirselves and if they had a soul or mind i'm sure they'd sell that too. empty worthless people. not really even quite people... just wastes of humanity with missing vital pieces. logic, humour, tact, anything. these beings have nothing i want and i feel like i have everything they don't want and yet they're still sucking me dry of it. strip clubs are bad for you. and that is pretty much it. another drug, outlet, whatever. that feels pretty good for about an hour but i know from experience that nobody really comes out on top. you're lucky if you ever make it out at all, and when you do, if you're not at rock bottom. it doesn't matter which side you come from, either. customer or dancer or whore or dj or bouncer or anything. we are all there for the same things. our insufficient lives have left us empty and hoping for an outlet. we stare blankly at beautiful naked women and no longer see any beauty in any human form. i give up.

we definitely played out our roles to the fullest, no? i have a lot to tell you.

i'm getting myself in trouble. any improvements, really. at least i'm not constantly in trouble. ...the consequences of bad decisions i may or may not have already made. i'm waiting?

i hate people with no tact; but again, i hate the spineless, weaker beings that let themselves be pushed over. we need to find a balance, to be able to say what's on our mind without hurting others' feelings, without being immature and saying that our own opinions are the right ones... opinions are just that. there is no right or wrong, but if you're going to go around, shouting to the world that yours are better, at least be able to back them up. i don't like raised voices, or name-calling for the sake of belittlement, or closedminded argument. i do think that everyone should just think before they speak, and those that can't, shouldn't speak. freedom of speech for the educated... who was that? socrates? i'll get around to it. "People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use." Soren Kierkegaard (1813 - 1855) anyways, i'm in a mood. i quit working at the fallback club last night: standing room only, and the three guys that spoke english were drunk. i'm sick. someone needs to make me some soup before my stomach implodes. brandon and i are giving it two years. C.amanda is leaving in two days for new york. we went to see a movie two nights ago. more about that later.

now that i've gotten things to slow down to half-pace, i realize that i've still got way too much on my plate. i have no idea how i was doing it, although i'm pretty sure i wasn't really. i can't even sleep because i'm thinking so much. why am i even more stressed out now? because of her. because of him... because of this, that, and whatnot. and whatever. and who knows? and maybe. forget the sandman; my latest bedtime buddy is the whatif monster. anyways. i'm working on it.

a secret code word. tell me if you're still here. i don't know who i'm talking to, and i want to.

well. you all know where i'll be today.

eight inch heels is a BAD idea. then again, when have i ever not done something just because of common sense? i'm having fun, that's what matters. even if i did almost break my arm. there's so much i want to do...

this is the mid birthday.

I'm finally moving out. Everything is going to be okay, only a little worse. It's just harder to do, as if all my growing up is going to happen in the next month. It's going to be great. I'm off to go smoke.

i shaved my head.

rivers of existential angst if my hands weren't bleeding and bruised, i'd hold on a bit longer. i'm too tired to lie, i'm too tired to sleep. i'll just sit and stare, too exhausted even to blink. to consider blinking. just sit and look at nothing. the air, particles, atoms, quarks. flying in front of my face. i see it all, and i see nothing. too tired to register to think to notice. if i sit still enough, so still my lungs and heart no longer move, so still my blood is frozen, i hear the universe. but i won't listen. it's just too loud and constant. i'd wish for sleep, but i'm too tired to wish. to hope. there is nothing. and everything. all at once. spinning fast and faster around and around and around. spinning and dancing. and spinning. particles, atoms. flashing before my eyes. flashing IN my eyes. maybe all i see is my eyes. greenish grey, brown. like the world, like my face and hair and clothes and the building. the wall i'm staring at isn't really there. the pen and paper are on the floor, not there. the words don't exist that i need to write down. there are no expressions for what i'd express, if i could. all i feel is the cardboard box i'm leaning against. all i smell. and spraypaint. silver and red and black and blue. small chips are stuck to my face. too much makeup melts my skin to anything rub-off-able. and i really don't feel or smell or notice any of it. i just know somewhere in my head, that it's there. or maybe in someone else's mind. maybe that's where i am right now. on the other side of the room, watching me leaning there against that painted cardboard box, with silver and blue particles stuck to mmy face, looking stale and unresponsive. looking unalive. maybe i'm dead...? the noise of the universe won't answer for sure. the head i'm sitting in doesn't care. or maybe is terrified. how do any of us know that this whole thing isn't just a dream? or an afterlife? maybe we are all just imagining everything else. and this is all a setup, there is no true interaction. just imagination. nobody is really reading this. I. just I. uncapitalized, i. am not really typing. does anything at all exist, anywhere, ever? what is... ? what? is? WHAT. maybe i'm dead. and this is heaven or hell or purgatory, or something entirely different. maybe i was never really alive in the first place. sitting in a canoe, trying to paddle through the muck, in a river of existential angst. nothing really is. what is.

almost anyone, almost anywhere else. and i swear i'd almost be happy but i can promise that i'd probably be happier except... what is happiness but a smile? and what is a smile, but an outward appearance content is in a heart and my heart is missing that ingredient infact, it beats at an opposite frequency "malcontent," even. it. beats. either. too. fast. or too. slow. and uneven. and breaks and. shakes. it gives and takes but still, anything. any reason other than this a) and. we'd all be a little less sick to our stomachs b) because. nothing else is ever enough like this could never be