1.8.2000

Pretentious. That's what I sound like. Maybe that's what I am. I never know. But I do speculate and I do care. I sit here and wonder, not always but every once in a while, what you think of me. How you perceive me. If you would like me, if you could like me.

And then I condemn every word I say as pretentious, and boring, and whiny. I do this when I read something better than what I've written. Something more honest. Like this.

I've read too many teenager diarists. I've read too much (and yet I've read too little) and I've seen too many pages full of javascript thingies and style sheets. There actually are some designs at which I have one look and never come back again. Despite of what might be inside it. Because the whole fucking style sheet/javasript/virtual goth/sailor moon makes me ill. Because I simply want to have nothing to do with people who use certain designs, however wonderful they might be.

I'm sickened. The internet makes me ill. No, www makes me feel ill. World wide fucking web. Full of useless whiners like me. Full of people I'll never have to meet and whose faults I don't have to realize. Too much design, too little content. This has nothing to do with actual writing skills. Lazarus (whatever fuck her real name was) can write. I still don't want to read her. Notice the want. This is all about wanting. Internet is all about satisfying our own needs. To do the things we couldn't do in real life. To create ourselves a life we could never otherwise have. Artificial, plastic, sickening daydreams come true.

And here we sit, behind our monitors, and actually dream of a time when we could suck our brains inside the monitor, vacate the damn imperfect body and replace it with electrons, achieve permanent happiness. Eat happy pills the size of our whole fucking head. We cyber and we talk and we create multiple personalities. We forget the pollution and starvation and our damn skin cells that don't behave like they should. We make ourselves transparent and plastic, replace ourselves with bits. And we're happy. Finally we're satisfied. We can have what we want, everything we want. We have the perfect partners and perfect criminals and our own kinds of realities.

And if the only fucking way to achieve some kind of happiness is through some damn dream, I think I'll pass. Because I've had enough of those dreams inside my head and they never make anything better. You think the distraction might be worth it but you'll just end up being more fucked up than you ever were before. It's impossible to be asleep all the time. That's why I'd like to die instead of having this dream. Because in the end it just isn't practical, in any way, to be alive at all.

(Innocent and pure. What the fuck do you want?)

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