I don’t like chat. I don’t like message boards. Commenting is… okay, sometimes.

Lately I’ve been trying to trace the genesis of this aversion. In my early to mid teens I spent the majority of my free time on message boards—on BBSes and, when I got internet access, Usenet, or IRC if I wanted a little feedback. I was the first person I knew to have ICQ, and I used to be on Instant Messenger all the time—facts which kept Chan and I’s friendship alive, and got Bo a girlfriend. Now I don’t sign on to Instant Messenger because I think, oh man, I might have to talk to one of these people… they might want to have a conversation with me. I incur the onerous expectation of communication. What else would I sign on for, though? What else is the point?

I think it’s… it’s like hanging out at a bar. You hang out there because she might walk through the door one day. You’re never going to talk to her if you’re always alone, asleep in your bedroom. And… if you knew her before… you’ll never see her again.

Take a moment of pleasure to ease the pain.

The end is just beginning.

I’ve tried writing and rewriting this entry about ten times now. I… I don’t know what to say.

I feel embarrassed because I don’t know your birthday. All I can write is… Raphael Chabran, 1979-2002.

I’m going to say a rosary and… I hope you… I… I’m sorry, Raffie.

Did you get your disconnection notice?
Mine came in the mail today.
They seem to think I’m disconnected.
Don’t think I know what to read or write or say.

Lo, it is you I have sought these many years
But knowing the impossibility of gaining your affection
I allowed myself comfort in the pleasure of others,
Each time allowing that this may be the one
Whose charms, laughter, sincerity of devotion might
Persuade me from the haunting of my mind,
The dreams at night, of you,
But each forgetful episode inevitably drew closed
With anger, sadness, bitterness, regret,
Tears I always discovered not for the one departed
But for you.

I went to a party tonight and no one there had heard of the Stooges.

I want her to be my wife, but she doesn’t even want to hold my hand.

There is a frame on top of my headboard, empty. It will hold the picture of the next girl I kiss.

The electrical storm night before last fried the power supply on my house’s main computer—and, incidentally, network gateway. Thus, no internet. Having repaired such, I return.

Now to catch up on my work. I promised a few features the day the computer died.