How the other half lives

It seems that I read random diaries, at least I do tonight. I think the most interesting thing I read was from a person whose name I will keep to myself because she may grow up one of these days and it would be a shame if she were forced to remember this particular lament by some freak accident.

"I cant get my 3EB CD's to play in their computer. Also they dont have Napster on their computer. Freaking thing might be gone forever tomorrow for all I know and I cant get more live 3EB covers!!!"

The sad fact is that the only reason I could surmise that 3EB means Third Eye Blind was because I read it in somebody else's diary about two minutes before.

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Oh. I need to clarify something that I said in today's earlier entry. There's nothing wrong with being a waitress to earn your living while you pursue another career. Really. However, there is something wrong with using the fact that you'd really rather be doing something else as the reason why you're a lousy waitress.

At least one person wrote to me ranting about how publication doesn't make a writer, which is absolutely correct. I suppose you're a writer when you create something you can live with, but that doesn't mean I understand why so many people on the internet seem to fancy themselves writers and think it means something.

Everybody writes; not everybody talks about doing it.

Me, I think the most beautiful stories are the ones we tell ourselves.

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And I think it would be a lovely thing indeed if common, ordinary house pets could be trained to hunt down and kill mosquitos. That would just be the whipped topping on the pumpkin pie that is my life.

before - after