To those not left in the dark to Enter the Void, I only need to say one thing: I've peeled off a lot of band-aids. My mind operates in two directions: the past and the future, and--haha, pun, kindof--it leaves me a bit torn at times. I replay the most intense moments of my emotions all the time. I stir so strongly the most painful of all my thoughts, and then I try to recount the world at the time of these memories. I try to recount my pacing, my words, everything as I can possibly remember it. And I know that the one person in this world who wants to grow with me, as I do with her, hates this, probably most because it is irritating, and possibly because it isn't good for me. The reason why I like these times though: I think it strengthens me as an artist, and that's what life is to me, is art; as I've said too many times on here already. And also just for my reflection. Some people like scrapbooks. I like objects, pictures, and memories. And I like holding these memories in my mind. And I probably recount so many bad things so often to make sure I don't forget. And I'm just thinking about this for the first time really, but remembering some things doesn't necessarily make me depressed, but probably advances my absurdity, but I think that just makes me all the more eccentric. But furthermore now. You know. This is the part with the band-aids. I think, despite all the blah-blah insane-blawdaoahweoheb mess I just said, I think it ends up healing me, or making me a better person. I don't feel as vulnerable as I used to, because of the reminiscance of the bad things. I feel on a higher level of thinking too, which I'll talk more about in a minute. I find myself apologizing a lot still, but I'm much less sincere about it AT TIMES. There isn't much I'm sorry for if I intentionally do or say something. The only reason I say sorry now, I believe, is out of habit, which I'm trying to break. [STORY TIME] As we all know, children are recording devices that emulate everything around them. When I was in Kindergarten, I got in trouble for something. It might have been the time my friend looked up this girl's dress on the playground, and I was somehow blamed for...being an accomplice (?). It may have been because I laughed, or something. Anyway, I got in trouble, and my teacher forced me to tell the girl sorry. I was shy and probably more stupid than most people were at my age (I realized later I was a bit slow. I'm not laughing. I was really kind of slow.)And due to those two factors, I was hesitant to say anything at all to this girl. And if I recall correctly, my teacher was angry, and kept telling me to say sorry, until I finally did. This is the one time I recall having to apologize, and then later there was god. GOD, I don't want to talk about religion right now. I'm sick of it, but for the sake of story time, I'll continue. After being Christian, there was my obsession with asking forgiveness of my sins. I often prayed in silence for forgiveness of everything I did that I didn't think God would be happy with, and as I was taught, we should not only say sorry to god, but to the people we hurt. LOL, this is so retarded. Okay, okay-- so anyway. Even after becoming Atheist, I maintained the desire to rightfully apologize in cases where I was wrong or rude or a jerk to a person. And sincerely, too! And then the past few months came. And I find myself feeling hardly any guilt for things anymore. YET I say sorry in situations still where I would otherwise feel guilty, but as said already, I'm trying to break away from those impulses. I think people should take advantage of their right to speak their mind, under the right conditions. Usually only sorry people apologize. Nostalgia and higher thinking for me. Okay, I'll admit, this part is mostly written for you, Pookiebutt. You seem to make fun of my little thing. The same thing that is pretentiousness, the same thing that is my "always right"ness. It's all that single force. But HunnienutCheerio, I don't want you to be under the impression that I think I'm better than everyone. =( As my weak response always has been to this, I do think I'm better than a lot of people around me. And I know you agree. But when I say things like "higher thinking," I just mean, I think that it's made me wiser to things. And I think for philosophy and morality sake, higher thinking to me means, a new collection of thoughts, no matter how ancient or common-sensical they already are. And above all, you know that one thing I am vulnerable to is the thought that I'm just an idiot. You know I fear being an idiot. And though it doesn't bring me down any, I always have the thought that you and everyone secretly agree that I'm stupid. (Feel free to tell me otherwise. Your kind words are like magic to me ;P ) And all of this went way MORE off topic than I had intended. This thing isn't to be in my defense to everyone's points against me, as it seems to be. BUT HERE I GO AGAIN: I'm thinking right now about all my days of seeming depressed. "Mopey", I call it. And truthfully, I don't know if mopey is even a slang word. I can't remember if anyone in the world has ever said this in my presence. It just feels like a real word, so I use it. I truthfully am this way, because it is often just a product to the variables of the setting at the time. If it's walking on a nature trail in HOT, HOT, HOT weather and I feel sticky from sweat and other people aren't around jumping up and down like monkeys, then yeah, I'll probably act depressed, even if I'm happy and actually enjoying myself. But thinking about those times, that's one thing I want to change about me. My =| attitude. It doesn't work for Jeanine Giraffelo (I SWEAR THAT IS MISSPELLED TO BE FUNNY), and it won't work for me. OKAY BACK ON TOPIC NOW A look back at everything. The good and the bad. The incomplete sentences (;P). Everything makes you sad. When you think about the bad things, you often build onto your lack of self esteem or lack of something about you, and when you look at the good things, you may end up thinking how that will never happen again, and if it does it'll never be exactly the same. I don't want my constant nostalgia to bring me down as a person, but be the most amazing inspiration to my art and to make a very good autobiography someday (Oh god, I have the treats for everyone who loves other people's memories! And still collecting memories, since 1988!) Today on July 14, 2006 at 5:22 AM and forth, I want to use my memories to serve me only, and not to tear me a part from myself or from the things I love. No matter how painful the most painful feeling so far has been for me, I own the feeling. It is something for my collection, and I will persue it only to better my life, as I want my life to be. This is a promise to myself, and hopefully it will act as a gift to my Darlin' Lover, who has shared most of my pain, even if she didn't want it. I love you! =) I also want to start living more of a life. I don't want to be mopey anymore at all. I want everything to be exciting from now on. Hopefully. (I WILL POSSIBLY COME ADD AND RECONSTRUCT THIS LATER ON TO SOUND AND LOOK BETTER, BUT FOR FUCK'S SAKE I'M ABOUT READY TO GO TO SLEEP) I have felt many things through many of the entries I've contributed on sitDiary, whether I've made them apparent or not. This has indeed been a diary to my growing, moreso than it seemed, because I do not keep the usual "today I did..." kind of thing. But despite all the things I've said on here, this is probably one of my last few entries sitDiary will be a part of, because I want to move onto some other diary type website, and let's fucking hope I don't end up sharing my thoughts on MySpace, solely. There'll be a couple more entries at least, I think. "I look at the little child. I can now plainly see the body with no distinct traits. Except for one thing. Dozens and dozens of cuts. I see a band-aid sitting there that I didn't acknowledge before. So, I pick a random cut, and place the band-aid gently on it, right where my cut is. On the chest. I see where another band-aid had already existed on the body on the arm, and I peel it off to see if there was a cut beneath it, oddly enough there isn't. I look really closely to the body, and before my eyes, I see finger nails forming. Just like that. Fingernails. They're brittle and so thin. I see two tiny holes shaping under a lump in the middle of it's face. Nostrils. Everything is shaping. I have a feeling this thing is going to look just like me when it develops. I sigh in relief, for some reason. I close my eyes, and lean back. I hear the...boy...sigh, too. And he lies his head against my bloodied chest. I smile, and a tear of happiness rolls down my face, just as I reopen my eyes. I never look at him again, because I know just what he looks like. I know he's smiling too. As my head is facing the ceiling, I notice that next to that useless lightbulb in the far left, another lightbulb begins to flicker out, as it joins the cold, lightless emptiness of the other one. My heartbeat is going at normal speed now. Everything will be okay, I know it. My eyes are still brightening, but beyond the improvement, to even more whiteness. As everything in sight goes blank, in white this time, I think one last thought: I remember doing this once before. Things keep getting whiter and whiter. And my heartbeat is getting slower and slower." -Jack P.S. Happy Birthday to my brother, Jeremy, who won't read this, but I want it to be written somewhere that I did say "Happy Birthday." I love you, and you have created very amazing things for my bank of thoughts. I remember all the times we laughed together, all the bloody noses you gave me (only two, incase that sounded like a usual thing for me), and all the painful times I got you in trouble. You have contributed more to the thing I am, more than you probably know, and I hope someday we'll be as close as I did always wish as a kid. Happy 27.

I can't hate myself everyday For making the same mistakes Everyone makes. I've been thinkin' about you all day boy, Look at you-- you're weak, I fed you my ear, And I still can't hear you speak. Sit up, and speak up, You've got expressions to spit up. Why have you always hated yourself with joy? You can't fall headfirst in a bed of nails. No, you can't fail like everyone fails. But things'll be fine when you hang on, Just stay strong, and it won't be long, You'll never go more than a little wrong. And I know you know that you need to grow. And the time has come to let it show. Because, boy, the show goes on Until the clock strikes Dead And I can't leave you an old man Still shaking his head. Come on, kid, take me by the hand. I'm going to give you drowning lessons, And as soon as you can, You're going to give me all of those Memory sessions. I'll take your childhood pains, And even though I can't erase those stains, Instead of letting them wear me out, I'll wear them inside out, And no one will notice, And I can keep on going, without a doubt. I can tell you, It hurts with water in your lungs, But in the long run, It's me you've been trying to reach For that special spot in the sun. I'll take your brain from here, So you can refrain from shedding a tear. And together we'll be forever. The Serene Dolly wants it too, She knows the pain you've been going through. And we know this'll be best for you. Here's the water kid, Just stick your head in. It takes strength to get broken in. And this is it-- Everything you've ever been Equals to this moment, And you'll have other moments To defend, so now I'll take this brain, And so I can relieve the pain, I'll make it mine And everything'll be fine. When they find your body, They'll find I gave it a wack, And in your blood they'll see the signature, Of your hero-- A man by the name of Jack. I've been planning for the future, when I'd want to change my name. Recently, I no longer felt like a Josh. I think I'll start with my identity of Jack right here on the Internet. The same place where my religious beliefs were discovered, my lust over things thought disgusting, my coming crossdressing days, my vegetarian diet, a majority of my knowledge, and so on. -Jack "The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing" "And since I am dead, I can take off my head, to recite Shakespearean quotations." "I'm gonna fight em' off. A seven nation army couldn't hold me back."

I'm sitting here right now, just after four o'clock pm. My television is running unimportant noises and a series of images behind me. My dog is asleep on the floor, possibly clueless to my existence right now. I have a bottle of Lipton tea before me, that's sitting infront of an answering machine that is blinking "12" for the messages I've heard, but just not picked the phone up from (or picked up after I heard the person speaking), with some that have been on the machine for days. I'm saying these things in order to record what I may or may not remember the next time I look back and read this. It struck me today: The speed of time. Is it fast or slow? I mean- We use time, in some ways, to record speed. And so, in recording time, we use our minds. It is not time that flies, but the mind that forgets things and remembers things, and gets slapped in the face by the speed of time, when we suddenly remember that the baby is now graduating highschool or that the first job suddenly became retirement, that the new first piece of artwork ever is now at the bottom of the stack of pieces that didn't quite make it to the first artshow. I got my first computer five years ago, and at the time Internet Chatting was big with all the hip kids (or the kids I thought were hip anyway). I met this girl on the internet from New York. We had nothing in common; I liked Blink 182 and she was obsessed with Eminem. But we were good "eFriends" that even planned on meeting up someday. Being the nerd-kid I was, I even told my closest friend about her. But we started arguing a lot months later, and she "blocked me" (If this were TBS, I would tell you it's safe to laugh a little). And after all ties were cut, we stopped talking, and at the time this was very depressing for me, because no matter how many miles away we were from one another, I had liked this girl, as a close friend, a lot. Yesterday, the Magical, Godlike electronic force known as The Myspace allowed us the opportunity to reunite. She searched for me, and sent me a message saying she thought she knew me. I checked her page, and I saw no Eminem pictures. I checked her friends and saw punk or rock bands (I can't remember which), and even Dane Cook and PETA. It was not very characteristic of her, but I played along anyway, since her name was the same as the girl I knew, and she was from New York. She responded and it turned out that it was her. Time flew, I thought. Her face and her style changed so gorgeously. And I can't get over how much in her personal life has evolved from the five years since I first talked to her. And it's moved on from that to the fact that time may or may not go by fast, but everything can change so quickly, not even necessarily beyond the reaches of the mind. I made a huge step (which remains unspoken for now) toward the future yesterday, and I later recounted the past (the story I just told), which has also fused to bring me another addition of thought for my life, as I travel forth.

I destroyed you, and I can create you too. -The Closing of Existence

For this photoshoot I anticipate on having Erika shoot of me, there is one scene in her bathroom, where I look really trashy, lipstick is smeared across my cheek. And I have a dollarbill, and I'm snorting a substance, that has been shaped to spell LIAR. This is how I picture it right now, at least. And I've been looking forward to this picture along with a couple other shots for a very long time, and now I've found the perfect motivation for that particular shot. The lies are the chills rising up our back, and the drug that makes everyone a part of the community. The lies are leeches that have partaken upon the blood flowing through my veins. But I've observed the leeches, and led them straight to boxes on their journey back to filthy water. LIAR She was a trashy thing- selling her body on the street. She came in exhausted one night, and went to her bathroom. She kept her money, very often in her stockings, between her legs. Everything she cared about eventually found itself between her legs. She pulled out a single bill, and rolled it up into a straw. Feeling so cold, and almost dead, she leaned into the white powder she laid before her, and wrote in all capital letters with her finger, "LIAR" and left the powder spread and unorganized in that manner, when she snorted it. It didn't matter, because she didn't want a high. It was just the thing to do tonight. The LIAR was snorted and was just another attempt at deteorating her insides. Necrosis was setting in, though while her cells were once healthily living. She was never really a live. It was all imaginary. It was all a lie. -SSeerreennee ddoollllyy

S. Dolly became one of the pseudonyms I started using a while back, when I started referencing twins or a duality in some of the personal things I have written. S. Dolly-obviously being a tie in with Salvador Dali- is a surreal and, of course, metaphorical person. S. Dolly is my stream of consciousness, but is also somewhat of an enigma, in the way I've presented her in the following story, which will probably be forever changing. My current life being so negatively filled in the present, mostly because of money, and partially because of people, S. Dolly is the name given to whatever makes me dream. I've cried so much spontaneously over the past days because of things I'm going through in my personal life, and my opinions growing so intense within my own body. I've come to realize many things, and I truly feel like my rationality is deteriorating. And it is not that I'm saying this to show off. To sound cool. Or whatever. But I honestly feel that maybe any concept of normality is being scraped away inside my own head. And I truly feel as though I will be successful as a result of this, and I sincerely love that. I think I'm continuously developing in my thinking, but my perception of reality is being shot down, and somehow I can't find failure in this. I feel as though I can call this S. Dolly. Here is the first draft of the possibly neverending drafts of a story on S. Dolly. It was written months ago, as you can still find a portion of it posted in this diary some posts back. (I hope I haven't already posted this story and forgotten) OMNIPRESENT A little girl, with innocent eyes like that of a solid porcelin doll, unfolds a piece of candy enveloped within a square piece of foil. She holds it up to the small lamp next to her in her freezing cold room, and decides that it is not the flavor she so desires. She tosses it and finds comfort in unraveling another piece. But she is always disappointed to find every single piece is the same flavor. She finds a new box, with plenty of new metal-encased candy. She takes a piece and puts it in a candy dispenser. She pulls the head of the dispenser back, and squeezes the toy, to make the candy pop out. It does, and she feels its sweet flavor tunnel through her head, and she dies. Shattered porcelin is everywhere. WITNESS TO THE BEFORE I had this friend several years ago, who was so sweet and innocent, but something had been bothering her, I noticed. The last time I saw her was after school that same day. She was leaving the schoolyard, eyeing the ground a head of her harshly with those cold blue eyes everyone was in love with. I remember seeing her curl of fiery red hair dangle with every heavy step she took. I remember it all so perfectly, because she stopped for one moment, and turned, almost in slow motion, and stared right at me for what felt like minutes, but after a few seconds she mouthed "Don't. Chan-ge. The. Path." She turned and stomped away. Then I got into my mom's car, and I rode away. The next day, on the school's intercom, the principle announced discreetly, being that it was elementary school, that she had died. I knew exactly what he was saying, and I began crying, because I remembered the previous day as a recording. Somehow I felt her death was because of me, even though I never spoke to her that often. My teacher escorted me to a lounge area of the office, and gave me a piece of candy that was wrapped in foil, to help calm me down. It wasn't what I wanted, so I spat it out and continued to cry, until finally I was a little more stable. I started to doze off in the cushioned chair I was sitting in. And I dreamed the most logical thing I've seen since. WITNESS TO THE AFTER So you want to know what I saw? Oh Lord help me, it was so long ago, but the portrait I stepped into when I saw her little body lying there that day is as vivid as I'm seeing you right now. Her room was almost like an icebox. I don't know why it was so cold, because the rest of the house was rather warm. When I found her body she was wearing this navy blue raincoat she had worn to school that day, because she felt it was going to be rainy, even though the weatherman didn't call for rain, and it was during the coldest days of winter. Her body was almost blue, curled up slightly, like even after death she was freezing cold. She had shot herself in the head with a gun I'd never held or seen. Her father died many years ago, you see, and always having a fear of guns, I despised the things. And I despise them even more now, because of what it did to my little baby's head. Fragments of flesh were everywhere, and blots of a distinct red were spread all over, in contrast to the darkness of the room. I cried so hard, but at the same time I couldn't bear to look at her for long. I thought about taking the gun and shooting myself, but I couldn't. And I'm telling you this now, with chills going up my back, but you see, I try to block it out. I don't like thinking about it, because it hurt so much at the time, and also because thinking back on it now, I almost liked the feeling I had looking at her body, because I know it's a feeling I'll never experience again. SERENE DOLLY I was disappointed at the world, because none of it is pure. It's all coincidental. And it should be left in the hands of the beholder, but the beholder takes everything for granted. I was but a little creature, and the universe is large. Therefore, are we all not little creatures? Even I could see everything with a heightened sense. I wanted all of them that day to see me angry, because I wanted them to feel. And whoever felt whatever I was going to do would be affected by this the most. And my purity will haunt them. It'll be a plague, but it'll be the best thing that ever happened to them. That afternoon, I clogged all outer existence from my room. I placed a towel under the door, and I placed one over the vents in my room so no heat could get in. I wanted to feel the calm of being the only one in the world. I was holding candy up to a light, looking at it. And I kept deciding it wasn't what I wanted. Everything, I began to realize, made me sick of pleasurable things. It was almost pathetic, because I was but a little girl with porcelin skin and mysterious blue eyes. But I was so much more, because I acknowledged being the little lonesome creature in the vast universe. There was a gun that had belonged to my father. It was one thing I managed to sneak without my mother noticing, because she had a fear of guns. It's funny how the things you fear end up destroying you in some type of way. In her case, it destroyed her sanity, seeing me dead like that. Today when the people in the home she lives in try to get her to eat, she always talks to them like they're interviewing her about my death. So I took this gun, deciding this was how I was going to convey my message. It's funny though, I didn't commit suicide, and I knew I wasn't. I was reproducing. I knew ever since the day my eyes shone that I was a superhuman. I remember my skin shattering into pieces. THE DREAM "Do you believe in dreams?" she said to him, and he looked at her scared, because she had just died the day before. "I believe in alternate universes, but not that you see them in dreams," he answered nervously. "Both are very real. The alternate universe, it's how you change the future, from what you think it will be. When you think of failure, and you succeed, you've made an alternate universe. And dreams, they inspire you, you know that?" As the little doll of a girl said this, she stepped into him, and they merged into one. The entire dream melted away at this point, and he woke up. She had created a child that would change the world. ---------------------------------- I know how choppy everything is in the entry. Including the story. The story was only meant to entertain a little, but it is meant to be a puzzle, or indication, at least. I reference a lot of things that'll only be understood by me, unless I explain them. For example. The things said in the dream, regarding alternate universes. Someone said this to me in a dream once. It was either a co-worker or just a character to the dream. And I responded how the boy in the story responds. -SERENE DOLLY

I am neurotic. And to steal the neologism, “Edgar Allen Poetic,” I have become quite so. Hatred is no longer a feeling for me, but an instinct. And at moments that I am not liking them, at least, I probably hate them. THEY made me into something I could only avoid for so long. THEY haunt me now. I was trying so hard to conquer my enemies, adjusting to a feeling of carelessness to those people. Finally feeling I could take on anything in my way, because the fear of letting people run over me was sinking, but then I discovered I am worthless! That the people I love are the people in my way. Because I can never tear them down. It is so hard trying to follow twins. An entity in two bodies, because they walk in opposite directions. All people are ugly to me. I have no faith in anything but myself. I had put my feelings and thoughts in you, I confided in you. And it was this that destroyed me. And I’m trying desperately to build myself back into something better. Never trust the Devil, I am neurotic. YOU that betray me will wear this as a blemish

"The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell." -The Tell-Tale Heart at some point people become a victim of their own product.

When things capture your mind, it's what you dwell on for so long, as has been the case with my comic-issue (That is a pun; notice it). A diary, a journal, a collection of letters. All things and anything to document my direction in life. Though some of things I do want to take out sometimes, because it's completely irrelevent, BUT that's something else all together. The comic thing, which I plan to make a Blog for, as I become physically progressive in its production, really is a big process. There's so much thinking involved with this, because I cannot just put it together as I want. I'm not doing a comic to solely please me. I'm doing it for the people who I want to want to publish me. I have a lot of plans baking, but I'm not ready to tell them yet. It started from watching a scifi movie today, the ending got clocks'a tickin'--the kind you put on bombs. I just want to remember all my steps. And all my inspirations. And one thing is--I'm just starting to tip-toe away from posting how I'm slowly changing to posting the things that are a catalist for these things. And that's what I aim to let you see. -SDC

TO CATCH UP READ MY PREVIOUS ENTRY FIRST I came up with the idea for my comicbook today, and I'm planning for a series of five. I feel those mutations within me finally taking effect. I've been eating a slightly better diet, I think, in the past couple days, and I think I'm slowly beginning to eat less without realizing it. I've gained a lot of weight back from the past, and I can feel that from the past couple days that I'm finally going to start losing it again, I just hope it works that way. I don't sleep like I used to. Going to sleep at around 12 and still hating it. I find that even when I am sleepy at night, it goes away rather quickly, and I end up staying awake thinking, like I have times in the past. Except now I think that these sleepless nights are a procedure in my art, stronger and more precise than before. I'm also under the impression that I have an unhealthy appreciation and obsession with Art. It has literally become the meaning of life to me, and everything has become an Art of [insert something]. As the staleness of simple life begins to fester in my own head, fresh new sprouts of sludge are popping up everywhere in this mind of mine, and I'm harvesting them. And a formation begins. This formerly unsubsidized THING slowly has veins leech to it from the pure air, much like a tumor, except this one is good, and this creature, whatever it is, mounts to me. And I nourish it...and it nourishes me. I'm taking a step toward something, and every fear I have right now isn't enough to keep me from wanting to move forward with this. I truly believe I've moved a pinky, under this immobilization I feel that I've had for so long. -S. Dolly

SO HERE'S A STORY (If you DO feel the need to ignore this entire important story I'm about to tell you, and you prefer to be a jerk and not read my awesome story, then AT LEAST, jump down and read the part I'm particularly excited about right now). So I'm a 12th grader taking Art A Honors, or Art IV. This is the first opportunity we've had in art, where we are in charge of our own projects. Well this semester I did my first acryllic painting that I absolutely adore, because it exceeded a certain amount of talent in that medium than I thought I had acquired. Well, a short while later my art teacher has an art presentation, and I notice she isn't taking those paintings I had done that semester, but took this other chick's paintings instead. So I ask her, if she's not taking mine to that presentation, if I can go a head and take them home (She had told me previously that she had intentions of taking that level's artwork and putting it all together, and it began to be obvious here, she wasn't going to show mine off) Well she responded to my question, saying she might just take one, and that she had thought about it anyway. I go in there the next day, and she hadn't taken mine, like I figured she wouldn't. And funny; that same day she went to the girl in my class who's art was taken to the show (there are three of us in that particular class, along with Art II students), and said she was going to see about putting her art in the library to be displayed. This made me really sad. And I realized here that it doesn't matter what it is, if it's my style then she's not going to give it the same appreciation as this other student. And so I've been trying to think of ways to cope with this in my own style. A way to show off my own work. And tonight I got on the internet for a brief moment to tell my girlfriend I love her, when suddenly I got an excellent idea-- OH MY GOD THIS IS THE GOOD PART: I decided to check out submission guidelines for a COMIC BOOK PUBLISHING COMPANY, AND AND AND I'm going to start dreaming constantly, about comic book ideas, AND OH MY GOD I'm going to take a stab at getting a comic book published, in the near future. And yes, I am taking all this very seriously. Believe in me All ye faithful children of mine own. Believe. Josh S. Dolly WEARESERENEDOLLYCONSCIENCE ANDWEARETHESURVIVINGLAND OFTHEFUMESOFALLTHEPROSTITUTES THATPOLLUTEMINDS Erika, it doesn't matter how many times we are struck, we will survive the Hell storm.

12:08 AM Don't be afraid to move You can beat them like you want, Because the truth is, They would do it to you too. 12:41 AM I'm no piece of shit, I'm better than them, Sometimes I just can't get it out, But I'll make it--bit by bit. 1:30 AM Tug-o-War sets in As my eyes get weak, But long before I give into you, The weakness will spread to my chin. 3:48 AM Triers must keep trying, Because that's the only way. Otherwise they become failures, And failures just keep dying.

Even though you want to forget All those things from before, There isn't one thing to regret. I should be sleeping right now, but I'm lonely instead. I saw my old friend's parents in Wal-Mart a little over 24 hours ago, and it's really sad to see his mother's face. She's gotten so aged and almost grotesque, and I can only wonder if the way he grew from sweet and innocent to sickening and idiotic made her that way. So I was lurking on someone's MySpace. Spying on them in attempt to get under this person's skin (Hoping they don't use that program that shows who's been to your myspace). And I found she was connected to a friend of a friend of mine. And somehow I end up at my old friend's myspace, and I'm reading his stuff and then his friend (my enemy's stuff), and there's this longing inside me to get to know them again, so I can hopefully get one of them alone and beat the shit out of them. Something inside me wants to get either of them, and bash their head against asphalt under a bright moon. I want to jump on top of him, grab him by his hair, while he is looking into my eyes and just bare his head against the ground. I want to put all my pressure on it, and feel the rocks going into his skull, and when I bring his head back up, little pebbles will be lodged into it. And then hit his head against the ground once more really hard, just to be spiteful. Then I want to punch him in the nose, and ask him why he has to be who he is. And turn him around, and push his front side into the ground.I want his teeth to be hanging out of his head, and I want his entire face to be red from shame and blood. And I want to drag him by his poor, pathetic, piece of shit head, into water where he'll never be found, and I'll never be caught. But that'll never happen. I think that 'Live Keen' has an interesting irony to it. I just now thought about that. That's an anagram of your name, by the way, Kevin Lee. And no, none of this entry has anything to do with you, obviously. I was just thinking about you all of the sudden. I have to be awake in about four hours. ;- -JG

This is a short essay that my lovely friend and, dare I say, soul mate, requested I host here on my diary. Renee has acted as my inspiration, since I decided to challenge the meaning of reality for myself: I shouldn't have to defend my drug opinions anymore than I have ever defended my religious views. But both are very sensitive topics. A drug is a substance that has an effect on the nervous system, and so most people are fairly acquainted with such a thing in some form. MARIJUANA I have done a fair amount of research on pot, so I wouldn’t call myself well read necessarily, but I know a decent amount of information on it. I sat and watched someone salivate all over a blunt, and lick it like a dog, in the process of rolling. I have smelled the pungent scent of pot, and it has even been shotgunned into my face. I know the mechanics of a bong, by research alone. I know that the contents of pot have several more cancerous things than cigarettes, but that pot doesn’t typically cause cancer, if ever at all. I know that some people experience the greatest high of their life the first time, and others don’t experience anything at all until the third fourth or fifth time. I’m familiar with terms like THC all the way to terms like Kill. And I have developed an opinion on marijuana. It doesn’t appeal to me in anyway, for what it is. I feel uncomfortable around it I think that it stinks. But deeper, I don’t like the way people think it is a pure substance that cleanses the body, when it is not. I don’t think it evokes the inner spirit (though I will speak more on this in a moment). I think it’s very filthy and raunchy, and the only thing I could ever find truly good about it, is (under the right circumstances) that friends can communicate on a different plane of thought. And that’s not saying much. However delving in the substance in the last several weeks, and even before, I find no truth in that only failures and idiots smoke pot. In my life: A best friend, who is a philosopher that has superior intelligence, smokes it. A popular rich girl. A thief and a liar (who actually has failed). But pot is not for me. LSD I’ve spent great amounts of time on this stuff, even venturing into online communities to see what people had to say. I’ve heard stories from a friend which fascinate me to an extreme. I gained an interest in it a while back, but went without researching for a while. The first person to really feel me in on the drug itself was my anatomy teacher. He told me about its history and effects. Then I did a lot of research on it, and I’ve become even more fascinated by it. But I’ve become less curious to ever try it. I’m not afraid of it, but I find it intimidating. It’s one of those things where I’d make sure to be in the right state of mind (in order to influence a more positive outcome, since outcomes are occasionally permanent, as it is said to alters one’s views of life forever. I want to avoid those effects totally.) and to also be in a safe environment of sober friends. PILLS Pills when taken correctly and wisely, and with pre-knowledge of what’s being taken, I find completely sane and understandable. I have disrespect for people who openly discuss even pill use in public facilities. Not the effects of pills, which I’d be intrigued by, just as any other drug. But I hate being in the company of people who discuss the pills they take or took the night before. And I hate when people exchange pills right before me. I find it extremely rude and displeasing. I am often disgusted by these types. I have tried a few pills in vain, but really only liked one of them so far. RECREATIONAL DRUG USE Not to justify anyone else’s opinions, I believe recreational pill use to be fine. I am against drug use for penis enlargement or dieting, because I think that’s dealing with things in a very unnatural way. But I think PILL usage to relax or rest the mind is beneficial and potentially relative to the freethinker’s lifestyle. With so much stress and tension some people endure, and occasional pill that will be harmless and unaddictive in small dosage is rational, in my opinion. Illegal substances, on the other hand, I won’t get into, since I’ve said I personally dislike pot. HIGHER THINKING This is the sole purpose I would ever want to try acid. So many users have claimed to see things out of this world. People have claimed to experience god. I want to feel this, but only to contact what is within me. People who experience these things experience what they want their mind to see and feel and become. And I want to know what my mind feels. I think the god invested in me is breathtaking. One user claims to have seen fetuses communicate with her. I’d like to experience this, in the right, safe environment, where I’d wake up to my old self again. ART AND INSPIRATION I feel a lot of things because of art. I am filled with so many images because of the things I have experienced psychologically and in the past. The thing is, I’m under the impression that drugs can’t make you more creative. People use depression, anger, happiness, landscapes, traveling, religion, politics, etc., as a catalyst for creativity. Are those things not drugs, when considering artistic expression? So then LSD conjures up these images, these thought provoking things…well the drug isn’t putting them there. The USER is putting them there. They’re images being sucked out of the subconscious and brought forth to the light. That’s all. But this is not researched, by the way. I’m assuming this is how it works. Much like a dream, I’d assume. You can’t explain it, but it’s in your head. Why take that for granted? I love my partner, and have been with him for a long time, and plan to be until I die. I never want to forsaken that bond between us, so I’d never use LSD without him present. And I never plan to use pot. This is what keeps me focused from these things, and makes me want to study it and find out all I can about it, without ever actually letting it be in my system. No one can put peer pressure on me, when it comes to something as powerful as using a drug. Anything I do on such a great level, is my thinking alone. People should not do things in order to heighten their status; rather to heighten their own level of appreciation, knowledge, or whatever makes them who they are. -Renee Lloyds

The thing I find amazing about these things that people who study astrology and the occult write is they're often very matching to ones own personality. It's just fascinating to me. I've recently started affiliating with this woman that does astrological charts over the internet, and I've started discussing phenomenotheism with her. I haven't received my astrological chart from her yet, but I thought of her just now, when I accidentally stumbled upon something about Gemini on the internet-- I was looking up JT Leroy, and the term ambi-sexual was used in describing him. So I thought "Hey, maybe that's what I am." So I looked the word up, but before I could find what I was looking for I found something about the Gemini that's very matching to me. Eventually, I put two and two together and pretty much figured out that ambi sexual would be similar to bi-sexual, since Ambi- would mean two. I love the usage of two associated with myself. I've realized how often siamese twins have appeared in my art since 2002(ish), and I have plans for twin pre-teens in one of my stories who give a blowjob to a black man (I thought of twins having sex BEFORE Marilyn Manson, Goddammit! Except they don't have actual sex in my story anyway) And I feel that in a way I have multiple faces which can fit into two categories. One being the one my mother and the like see, and the other being the one that hasn't fully hatched, because of the existence of the first. Once again I'm interested in the occult and mysticism. From a distance of course. There have been times when I've been absolutely disgusted with these things, but I love the disillusioned Magic of them, and they fascinate me. And the essence of this magic plays a bit of a role in Phenomenotheism. And about that--I know it's ridiculous to my friends (Does it make you want to throw up?) but it's how I've organized my thoughts, and I wish it could be big. It could be the nicotine patch for the thriving freethinker. Ordinary people come up with foolishness. Look where scientology went. And mine is a mere philosophy with no gods or idols. It's a community for people like me to interact through brainwaves. One day I want to make my notes available on the internet to the right people, and I'd like for them to join my league of reality. And I want it to spread to complex individuals. Pathetic or not, it is a dream of mine. So I'm thinking about about astrology, and how it's fake to me, but very real coming from the words of the "gifted" human. That's amazing. You truly are a Mercurial person -Shannon

I'm tossing around eight or nine poems/songs. Some have already been written, and some still suck, so I'm re-writing them, and some suck and are staying just as they are. And then the ones that I'm just still writing. I'm rewriting a shortstory I wrote two years ago, so that might be done someday. I also plan to start a novel soon. I should have at least ten new poems posted in the next week or two. Unless I get sick of some of them, and decide to strip them down for other things, and in that case you may be lucky to see more than three new songs. You cannot imagine all the things I've seen, While you were in the box. -S. Dolly

A little girl, with innocent eyes like that of a solid porcelin doll, unfolds a piece of candy enveloped within a square piece of foil. She holds it up to the small lamp next to her in her freezing cold room, and decides that it is not the flavor she so desires. She tosses it and finds comfort in unraveling another piece. But she is always disappointed to find every single piece is the same flavor. She finds a new box, with plenty of new metal-encased candy. She takes a piece and puts it in a candy dispenser. She pulls the head of the dispenser back, and squeezes the toy, to make the candy pop out. It does, and she feels its sweet flavor tunnel through her head, and she dies. Shattered porcelin is everywhere. Deviate from the dead weight That makes you someone else. [x] New works. Coming [x] -S. Dolly

I want to taste you, Because it tingles, The way you tease me. My tastebuds find you quite pleasing. You're tart and tangy And I'm quick to admit That you make me feel DANGEROUS! Cranberries, Cranberries, Cranberries! I want you to ring Around my tongue, It's just too joyous To be called fun. And it's all because You're a cranberry. But I'd like more, If you don't care. Cranberries, Cranberries, Cranberries! I could eat you everyday, But Cranberry, I must warn you; Don't get me started On the topic of cherries. Otherwise, you just might find That you're both desired, All the time. -Connie Leengus

One of the beliefs I've carried over through my many rebirths are that people decide when they want to die. And that's a really powerful statement I've made. To say something like that and believe it is absolutely ridiculous, but I suppose you could say that's a philosophy I've maintained within my phenomenotheist belief. And again, that term itself has some meaning I've adopted as my own. It's reality as I, or its practicers would, see it. In truth, I know death could strike at any given moment. But given I have a certain mentality that allows me to arrogantly believe such a lie, such bullshit, is what creates in itself the chance that maybe I will die, but not before I say Fire. Such a thing has the same essence as Faith, as people call it. But faith is a dead word to me, because I don't like how people associate it with other subjects. Once again I'm feeling this urge to create, but in ways I haven't. And I have a lack of fear of the future right now, because I know I'm going somewhere with these urges and tendencies I'm having now. I've restored a certain feeling of belief in myself again, since certain honesty has come to terms with the battling feelings in my head. The fact that I feel like shit lately for certain things has renewed a sense of strength and determination in my mind; that the future will at some point cater to my every need. My art is starting to amount to a complexity. Not in the skill necessarily, but in my inspiration. The images I'm creating, I feel are deeper, because they make me feel the way a famous painter's painting might make me feel. I've sketched one painting I plan on doing in art so far, and I'm visualizing something great with it, and I can only hope to achieve this visual. And my writing too. Suddenly I feel a wealth of energy that I want to express through my writing again, like with my art. I think that feeling has made me vigorous enough to want to produce a better flow and multiple perspectives with my writing. A long time ago, close to a year, I think, I had all these ideas that I wanted to post on my blogs. And the reason they became false promises is because deep down I didn't give a shit, and I didn't know it yet. I don't care about the crucifixion of Jesus, because it probably never happened, as I see it. Crucifixion might be fun to write about, but I don't care about retelling different people's take on that fairytale. I'm still interested in all of these things though. But I have a different passion for all of them. I don't want to instruct people how to believe in their god, or what could have happened to their god, but I don't mind searching for myself, and retelling it on a day they might listen. But I feel no need to write essays that serve hardly any purpose to anyone. Maybe if it's a necessity, but otherwise my fixation is set in different places. I still have this obsession with wanting knowledge of everything, but I want to express this knowledge in different ways. At this very moment in time, I feel like writing about myself. I feel like rewriting Skeptic Syndrome, because after re-reading it recently, I decided I didn't like what it did. I didn't like the way even I read it and felt nothing. I left out a lot of details and I wrote it in a different voice than the one I feel belongs there. I wrote it in as an uncertainty of who I am. But I know exactly who I am, when it comes to that piece of my life right now. I want to write about why I'm a stalker of sorts -Why I want to milk you of everything you know about some girl I've never heard of in my life, and never even wish to know -Why I want to suck you dry of every thought that is in your mind - Why I want to see pictures of you on the internet and save them to my computer, just because I feel like someday I could be the one that some kid with hope saves to his computer in hopes that he will someday be just as attractive and powerful as I look in that particular shot. I just don't think you could possibly fathom how great, but how angry, I feel right now. How I feel great because I'm going to come out on top, but I'm angry because I will have to make sacrifices, GREEDY sacrifices, that are only sacrifices because everyone loves money that much. I know I'll make it through college. I know I'll be an array of artist. I know I'll be a role model, regardless of the fact I might not care personally about the people that admire me from a distance. I'm feeling something right now that I don't think I've ever felt before. I'm feeling a part of every feeling. And it's making me feel great.

I think I'm finally on the road to success with a more vibrant lifestyle I want to persue. Today started a new semester, introducing me to one new class, two higher level classes, and one class, which is the same as my last semester class. Normally, I wouldn't write about something like this, but I think I can pull knowledge and experience from ALL of my classes into my personal lifestyle. (FOURTH BLOCK) JOURNALISM I took this class last semester, and I'm not sure how I'll end up doing in there this semester, but I have yet another opportunity to write and show off. After my second(?) article for the class, I lost some faith in it, because it got rejected by my principle, on very idiotic grounds. After that, I procrastinated as much as I could, because the class lost it's appeal to me. I just loved being around people I care about in there. I think with this semester, I'm going to make more of an effort to show through. (THIRD BLOCK) AP ENGLISH IV omg hard omgomgomgomgomgomg har hard hardhoahraohfhos hard. Today my vulnerability to vocabulary took the opportunity to show through. I'm nothing in there. But I can already tell, I'll probably take a greater interest in English, and as soon as I finish typing these things, I'm going to look up vocabulary as a chance to exercise my knowledge, and to better it. I know I'll succeed. (SECOND BLOCK) ANATOMY Have I ever expressed my love for anatomy on here? I have some, right? Yes, no? Well here I go: I am expressing my love for anatomy in this sentence. The End. Oh my god. A whole class dedicated to the human body. Science I like. I was a fan of biology, until I was distracted. And I did like the portion dedicated to the human body system. But this. Anatomy is a pretty word anyway, right? And I get to dissect a cat. And to all you people who are ready to call me a hypocrite, blah blah, I'm not getting into it. The humane society gets my dollars for dissecting a cat. I believe I was told they cost $44 dollars a piece. And the cat was going to be put to death anyway. Does that not make it sound slightly more glorious? (FIRST BLOCK) ART IV HONORS A At first I was scared, but I've already begun a project of my choice. Dali meets Warhol. And I'm going to be working with mediums I have not really bothered with before. Finally. And this has inspired me to want to give Erika $100 for her to pick out supplies for me. All of these classes present me with the ability to have a tremendous growing experience. They all reflect my personal opinions, talent, and interest. -Josh Yes, this one was written by Josh today.