drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary


artistic pretentious grandeur

I am lost. Without affection, without attention, without appreciation I am lost.

All three elude me of late.

The other day I bought a notebook at Borders. It's smallish, just the size to fit in the back pocket of my messenger bag. There is an old postcard picture of the Eiffel tower on the front, and a red stamp that looks very worn and romantic. I bought it so I could feel of worth.

The pretentious shit I've written in it so far:

page one:

To write. To be a writer.
There is something indescribably glamorous about the notion. Something intangible.
But this is why I bought this little book. To further perpetuate (is that redundant?) my little delusions of artistic grandeur.
What could be cooler than jotting down eloquently formed musings on life? What could be cooler than carrying around a worn notebook full of insights and charming sentiment?
When I'm insecure about my beauty and charm and no confirmation is in sight the best I can do is ramble and try to drag out all the intelligence and eloquence I possess. Of which I possess little. Or is trying to belittle any talent I sneakily suspect I have a tactic of its own?
This is shaping up to be comprised mainly of rhetoric.

page two (written concurrently and consecutively and shortly after I hung up on JR):

Did I ever tell you that I hate you?
No, wait. I think I expressed the opposite sentiment. Funny how often the two manage to coincide.
Funny. But agonizing.
And it's incredible how often I confuse them.
It is, of course, all part of the master plan concocted by the universe (which, yes, I sometimes imagine as a very petty and emotional force) in an attempt to foil my plans and thwart my happiness.
Or whatever.
Sometimes writing down my miserable feelings releases them. But what if I don't have the words to articulate them? What if I don't even know what they are?
I know what caused them-
Whenever you dismiss me as a child or make light of my insecurities I die inside. It sounds dramatic but writing it down is like scraping the rot out. Bleeding me of all the bad blood.
You are an aberration.

third page (also written concurrently and consecutively):

I feel as if I'm in a perpetual state of limbo. As if I'm just hanging around, waiting for the next bomb to drop. Hit the ceiling.
Mixing metaphors is so much more charming than reverting to stale clichés.
Which happens to be, in itself, a cliché.
Do I sound more intelligent if my writing is illegible? Or if I'm completely unintelligible?
Or if I rhyme?

All three pages make me want to simultaneously vomit all over them and show everyone. Look! I'm a writer! Even if it's shit I'm carrying around a little book full of all my own pretensions and I can take it out and write more shit in it any time I want to. I have a feeling that I'd have to choose between vomiting and showing, however. I don't think mixing the two would be much appreciated.

9:25 a.m. - 2004-01-11


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