August 9, 2004


This weekend, at my birthday party, shit hit the fan. My birthday have always sucked, but this year's takes the proverbial cake. I learned that a handful of people I know in real life read this blog. This is a blow to me, as now my three close friends are no longer speaking to me. Apparently, I've damaged their trust with keeping this blog. I don't know how they found it, but they did, and it looks like I'm out my three best friends.

I know that I occasionally exaggerate, but I never thought I was doing anyone harm. I didn't even think that I blogged about them all too much; it just festered until months later, when they decided to group up and attack me. (It's my party and I'll cry if I want to now hits a bit too close to home.) I always thought I gave people the benefit of the doubt, and was never too catty towards my friends, but I guess I was wrong. I 'misunderestimated' the power that my words can have, and now I've to live with it.

So I'm closing shop, at least until I beg my way back into my friends' hearts.

I don't know what I'll do if I lose these guys. I don't mention it much, but I'm not exactly the most stable person when depressed. There's a reason why I was put on suicide watch first semester. I hope I can get win them back. If I can't, well, it won't be first time I've tried to shuffle off this mortal coil. I think I've enough practice that next time should be a winner.

I hope to be back, but if not, it was fun while it lasted. I'll see you on the other side, guys.



Consider yourselves punk'd. One of the benefits of allowing myself the weekends off is that even though my birthday did kind of suck (though not to the extent of birthdays previous), come time to write Monday's post, the disappointment had worn off and I didn't really care anymore.

Or, as I posited to my friend Anna: "So what if my birthday sucked and I didn't get anything I wanted. I'm a gay boy with a credit card--wait--why the fuck aren't we at the mall?"

So, after a lovely shopping spree (digital camera, lots of new underwear, possibly my own domain... mmmm), things are looking up. Except, of course, for the things that are not. These things will probably be explained in short posts throughout the week, as most can be summed up in nice little paragraph quips.

NB--The Smiths allusion in the title does not refer to my Ashton Kutcher-like hijinx, but instead to the fact that the ex (or someone pretending to be the ex) left a comment, thereby making contact for the first time in eight months. If it's a joke, it's not a funny one. I hope it's an imposter as I have no idea how to remove everything from the archives that may or may not be completely and utterly embarrassing for me to have him read without removing whole months at a time.

If it is him, however, he should know better than to go months without talking to me, especially if he's been reading this blog from the beginning--the punk.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.