Today, I supposed to go to bank, to transfer my money out of my puny little
savings account into a checking account. My parents were skeptical at
first. "Why?" They'd interrogate me with. "Why
not let you money grow?!" But I had facts and figures. Growth
is good, yes, but the rule of seventy-two says that my current interest rate
.01 of one percent divided into 72 means my cash would effectively double... in
7.2 millennia. And that was just lovely. So I was going to
establish a checking account, and hook it to an orange savings account.
Brilliant! The excuse was legit.
The real goal was to start a blog. I'm not a writer, but I'm smart enough
to know what catharsis is and stupid enough to believe people actually read the
journals of the people they never met. However, to start a site one needs
a domain. And to get a domain, one needs a checking account. This
was the order and thought process behind the plan. There was one
catch. I couldn't tell anyone.
I have a knack for telling secrets and not keeping promises, but this time, I
realized that in order to write freely, Id need to lose my known
audience. Xanga is smart. It's a social networking tool that has a
double functionality. Blogging and Networking. The Facebook
"note" feature is good, but pales in comparison to Xanga which was
born out of the weblog. But I just want to blog. I just want to
write. I used to say things and think about things until they became to convoluted
I lost any want to say anything at all. In my previous Xangas, I wrote to
please an audience, my friends. No opinions. I know what it's like
to hurt people with words; you're never treated the same way again. I
have friend named Matt who can say anything, because he has nothing to
lose. His close friends don't care, they keep him in limbo.
Somehow, I'm trying to be him. Someone who no one respects.
But today wasn't my day.
I check Facebook around ten am because I have nothing better to do that early
in the morning on a federal holiday and notice I have one message
pending. It reads plainly and simply, "911" and is from my
current girlfriend Brittany. Another minute or so and a phone call give
me all the explanation I need. Her mother is having an episode.
It's really bad. She needs to leave. And it's a federal holiday...
on which banks are not open. My plan will have to wait.
I spent my day with her. We played pool, talked, ate grilled cheese,
kissed, complained, played Guitar Hero on the Wii, and watched the first half
of Dance War: Bruno Versus Carrie Ann. Bruno accent is from forty
different countries. I got nothing done. For some reason, that's all
right. And now, here I am. Somehow, I need to speak my mind,
freely, and so Xanga, I've returned, friendless, but with the truth. I
don't think I've ever actually told the truth in my life. It's something.
I read another entry from another one of my friends, Jess. Somewhere in
her artsy prose it says, ignoring the secretarial shorthand translation,
"In this last semester, I've started living. And I have one left, to
live to the fullest." I think it's good advice. To live.
I don't know what it means, but it sounds pretty intelligent. Something
that would bring comments like, "Lovely" and "I love you
dearest." If I'm not mistaken, I've been living since I was born.
And despite bad grammar, befuddling composition, and generic prose, this is my chronicle.
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