think I'll go for a walk now. feel a little unsteady.

There's something post-humous about this journal entry, because I'm writing it ahead of time, because Diaryland is down, or gone, or depressed, or something. Is away. Let's all include Andrew in our prayers.

I am so blue. I'm not sure why. I think it's the combined effect of the fact that getting a job is not as easy as jack kerouac would have you believe, and nsync. Also, I got in a dog fight a little while ago. Also, Napster isn't working right.

Can't complain about Napster not working, though, just like I can't complain about Diaryland not working. Beggars can't be complainers. Beeeggars.

Read a story this morning, by (brilliant) Julad, called End of the Beginning. Way too much sadness over breakfast. I can't deal. It says

Nobody else was in control.

JC got thinner, and thinner. "I just want to get this section done," he'd say, and skip lunch. "The next album," he kept saying, drunk or sober, shooting up or coming down. "The next album will fix everything."

"Are we going to do anything about him?" Chris asked Lance, since they seemed to be the only ones even *trying* to steer any more. Lance sighed.

"I'll trade you for Joey," he said, and Chris shivered.

"I can't deal with Joey," Chris admitted.

"Me neither," Lance said softly, staring blankly at their reflections in the polished gold elevator doors. Their makeup artist had nearly quit yesterday, over the bruise on Lance's face.

It had been sweet once, he would tell himself, fist crammed into his mouth, trying to overcome Lance's pleas not to interfere. It had been cute, and funny, and sometimes really fucking sexy, he was sure of it.

"Why do you do it, then?"

Lance laughed, a short, sharp bark of irony. "Give me a siiign..." he sang.

I don't know. It's fine. But, like I said, I had a fight with this dog, a boxer. And I took a long walk, and White found me and picked me up . . and then we came home, and she didn't laugh, and I didn't laugh. Which is, a big deal, with us. She's tired all the time, I figure. She went home to get some sleep before the late showing of Hannibal tonight. She's treating me to a movie, 'cause she's a good woman, and Chad's coming and maybe Annwyn's sister.

There's some puddin' cake in the fridge, which I helped my ma make, and it figures into my recovery system. I'm going to sit here and type this, and feel this, and listen to this playlist for a minute. And then I'm going to get up and change clothes and cowboy up and not feel it anymore, and top it off with a nice piece of puddin' cake. MmmMMM.

Playlist:

'Heartbreak Hotel' - Whitney Houston

'Never Seen Blue' - Tori Amos

'I'm Like A Bird' - Nelly Furtado

'Leaving On A Jet Plane' - NSYNC

'O Holy Night' - NSYNC

'Untouchable Face' - Ani DiFranco

"I just want to get this-- done. The next album. The next album will fix everything."

PHOOM!

I am channelling the boxer I tussled with. Fucking orange-brown bastard. I'm shaking the rain offa me.

And I am fiiiiiine.

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

There's, like, this bouncy Carribean beat to the NSYNC version. It's not uncool. Josh Chasez just has this complete inability to sound sad. Although, he probably is. He--

NO! Enough! Boxer!!

I'm leaving! On a jet plane!!

Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'm good.

I'm gonna go change and have some puddin' cake. Of course, this is not realtime, because I'll be actually posting this entry later. And, I'm gonna make myself post it, even if I think it's lame later. 'Cause. That's what y'all are here for, right? Slice of life?

leavin on a jet plane. leavin on a jet plaaa-aaane.

--Alestar
***
In a clearing stands a boxer. and he carries the reminders.

Hey. Post-humous note. I checked, like, five minutes after I finished that and Diaryland was fine. Napster is still on the wonk, though.

So, but. We're still realtime. We're still good. It's the power of positive thinking, people. Or: the power of puddin'. Tomayto, tomahto.

--A.