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Below are the 15 most recent journal entries recorded in Non-Existent's LiveJournal:

Tuesday, August 24th, 2004
12:34 am
"One, two, buckle my shoe" as a metaphor for picking up chicks in a minivan.
o/` One, two, buckle my shoe o/`

There is controversy over the exact meaning of this line. One school of thought holds that early minivans had shoe harnesses as safety devices. Thus, "buckling one's shoe" is a safety precaution. A more straightforward school of thought holds instead that "shoe" is Viking for "seat belt". These schools are both clearly mistaken. Intensive research has since revealed that the inventor of the seat belt, a Mr. Edwin Shoe, liked to name things after himself. His addiction to gambling also produced a device commonly used by blackjack dealers, the "Edwin".

o/` Three, four, shut the door o/`

This line demonstrates the minimal amount of change between early minivans and the modern conveyance. At three chicks(four people, including the driver), the first two rows of the minivan are filled. Clearly, removable backseats are a modern invention, or at least were uncommon as of the writing of the song, as it continues with:

o/` Five, six, pick up sticks o/`

We move on to fill up the backseat, and the song recommends picking up skinny chicks, as we have quite a ways to make it to "nine, ten". In contradiction to [Bellows, 1978], the author feels that this also indicates that the minivan has bucket seats rather than a bench for the middle row, as the middle is clearly full at this point.

o/` Seven, eight, lay them straight o/`

Self-explanatory, except to note that [Budd, 1997] and [Bush-Cheney, 2000] are embarrassingly wrong about this line, as is shown in my series of papers "Getting 'Lay Them Straight' Straight, I-IV".

o/` Nine, ten, a big fat hen o/`

Recent work has shed new light on this line, long a mystery. The phrase "a big fat hen" was a slang term for "a minivan full of chicks". Early culture was opposed to picking up chicks in minivans, thus, for example, the story "The Little Red Hen", where the virtues of small hens, and thus, of monogamy, were extolled.

We are proud to finally set the record straight on this topic, and humbly suggest that the reader ignore the forthcoming articles by Gore-Lieberman and Rosewater, "'Buckle My Shoe' with a Dash of Lemon" and "Roseanne 'Shuts the Door'". No good can come of them.
Monday, August 12th, 2002
9:50 am
In other news.....
In other news today, another man silently cursed those who become righteously indignant at a perfectly clear operating system for not doing one minor thing. Eye witness accounts say the man looked up for a second, swallowed bitterly, and then resumed typing. There is some controversy as to whether he almost raised his hands skyward. If he did have this impulse yet refrained because of the existential futility of trying to explain the simplicity of the windows interface it will be the most prnounced silent cursing in three months. If for some reason he just tensed his shoulders, the incident becomes less noteworthy. Further investigation is pending.
Monday, August 5th, 2002
7:14 pm
Man boxes own ears, falls unconscious
Robert Young, of Delaware, was found lying on the floor of his office today, having sustained a mild self-inflicted concussion. Reconstruction of the preceding events suggests that the injury was computer-related; his monitor showed signs that he had recently attempted to open a file in Wordpad using drag-and-drop, an action responsible for more than fifty percent of such injuries. An expert noted "I believe that in this case, the frustration of realizing that Wordpad's support for drag-and-drop operations is so poor as to be almost negative (indeed, it does nothing more than insert a strange icon into the current document) was aggravated by Windows' poor support. A recurring factor in many cases this year was attempting to drag items onto the taskbar; an action which completely fails to work in Windows."
Friday, August 2nd, 2002
11:41 pm
I want a batmobile....

Current Mood: envious
Tuesday, July 30th, 2002
5:31 pm
Gee....I really wish I could use Excel to do this project I'm working on......

Current Mood: envious
Tuesday, July 2nd, 2002
5:41 pm
o/` Like RAY-ee-AIN on your wedding day o/`
So today was place-large-colorful-bird-feeders- inside-your-window day at work.

Oh, the humanity. My ears are still ringing.
Thursday, June 13th, 2002
2:30 am
The other day was just like today, rainy and cold. I wished for it to be a bit warmer so I could go play outside, but the temperature never rose, neither did I. I sat in my chair, with its torn arms trying to write you a poem. I tried to write a poem that would somehow explain your beauty and complexity but no words would come that meant anything. All of the words about love, about beauty have been repeated so many times that the only thing that is ever fresh anymore are words about tragedies that have recently happened. Atomic bombs are easy to write about because they have only gone off so many times, hearts and the sorrow caused by them breaking have made infinite appearances in the world of literature and our minds. If you hated me this would be easier, I would have a pure emotion to work with, I would have something easily explained, but this emotion, this bond, I cannot explain. Sometimes happiness causes the worst of writers block. Negative emotions, sadness, grief, anger, there is a need to rid them from the body, for cartharsis, to give them a new home on paper, love though, happiness, you never want to give away to the paper, it does not deserve it, this is a happiness that must be kept from degrading in any shape or manner.

I thought of comparing you to some type of flower, but that was a ridiculous idea, only girls are compared to plants and even then the execution is usually weak. Flowers seem so inanimate, kept merely for their outer beauty, kept only until their petals begin to wilt, before the owner gets bored with them, then either thrown away or dried out to be kept in a memory book somewhere, forever hidden from the light of day. No, no, you are not some precious flower that will one day no longer be precious. Maybe you are more like rain and I am the flower, or maybe I'm a tree, a rock in the middle of a field.

Or maybe I am merely a person walking in the rain, and when the rain turns cold I become sick and when the rain is warm I rejoice in it and dance. There are many sexual metaphors I can make about dancing in the rain. But you cannot be rain because I am not sad when the rain goes away, I am not sad when the sun comes out, but I am saddened when you are gone.

There is no way in hell you are the sun.
2:09 am
You were always my favorite.
Saturday, June 8th, 2002
12:13 am
I would make love to you if I could. but I can't. On these nights there is rarely anything that can keep me from wanting to evaporate into the stratosphere, into the humid summer horizon. Maybe I should smoke cigarettes so that my life can be a complete cliche of pain and tragedy and everything could play over and over in my head while I take a drag and then another

and another

the images could curl like smoke, my life burning in front of my eyes, sometimes it would be so quiet that I would be able to hear the paper burning of my cigarette.

I would make a clever metaphor the ashes that are now my past picture of the future, my hopes and dreams turned gray and lifeless. Yes, that would be clever. I could go through packs upon packs of cigarettes wishing to evaporate like the smoke, letting the finished ones drop unto the wet pavement and sizzle out like like the meaningless moment in a pretentious movie that everyone who wants to be someone says means everything and that moment would somehow become a small dirama of my life, that sizzle and then the moment of extinguishment representing the finality of my death, the meaninglesss of all of this, the meaningless of every moment. I could base my entire life on cigarettes, my entire being filled with nicotine and tar, my life philosophy based on cigarettes how they may never understand why they are made and destroyed so easily.

This is about want and wishes, not cigarettes. But then those want and wishes can be related to cigarette cravings, once again cigarettes can act as the basis for every metaphor for every part of life imaginable. Life would be simple, cigarettes and coffee, cigarettes and coffee, repeat, rinse, repeat, when you finally die from being full of toxins your body will get its final rinsing on the inside and out, all of your contaminated blood replaced with pure chemicals so that you are left to evaporate in a biohazardous waste bin, like smoke.

the only problem

smoke disappates

Instead every night I do stupid and inane things just to do stupid and inane things. I don't read hard books like Faulkner and Kafka, I read children's books, really bad teen novels, romance novels with no real romance, I run through the house with bubbles in one hand and the dog running after me and barking and Elvis's Christmas album blasting from the stereo. I watch the greatest commercials ever special on network television, trying to somehow find myself. I don't go the conventional methods of drinking green tea and meditating, I dont' dream of going to the more sophisicated Europe, instead I make plans to have a holiday in Terrell County, Alabama.

I have a rubber band around my wrist.

I snap it every time I use a four syllable word unnecessarily. Everytime I consider ordering a dish I can't pronounce just because it sounds good.
Friday, June 7th, 2002
10:12 pm
My underwear fell off today. It was a surprisingly plausible sequence of events. This morning, as I put it on, the elastic snapped, and since I had lost 20 pounds overnight, it was really loose. At breakfast, rjyoung was playing with scissors.(Trying to cut his Cheerios into equally sized pieces.) He missed and badly ripped my underpants. As I left the house, my mom reminded me to bring extra pants for my presentation on Pants Across America. Going into my English class, I tripped over an air freshener, and it spilled all over my pants. My teacher, who was allergic to air freshened pants, made me take off my pants, causing my underwear to promptly fall off. My teacher apologised, and I told him that it was okay because I had extras. In Physics, we were studying Galileo's experiment with the feather and ball. The feather had been lost in our recent foray into black hole anatomy, so he needed a replacement. The rest of the class was asleep, and the only thing available was my underwear....

Anyway, there was my presentation with Pants Across America. The kid across the room was doing something about champagne on the moon and was showing us how bleu cheese could be used as a corkscrew. Just as I was changing into the Ohio pants, the cork suddenly flew off and the champagne soaked my underwear. The added weight allowed the wire from the cork that had hooked itself into my underwear pull my underwear off. Oh well.
Confused? Look Here
Friday, May 24th, 2002
2:15 am
When you rolled over this morning and growled at me before rolling unto your other side again I was reminded of our wedding day or rather the morning after. We had decided to hide away from the world for the night in a rather unusual manner, we got drunk on the balcony while I chain smoked and we told each other stories from high school. Of course we ended up in bed, our newly found status forced us into bed together unlike the first time we found ourselves sharing the same sheets. We were too drunk to fuck, to consumate our union, just like the first time. You pass out with your head on my stomach, sometime during the night you moved, wrapping your arms around me and whispering I love you in my ear, I was awake, I am always awake listening to your every move when you jostle me. I wake too easily sometimes. It would be good if I had a baby.

I crawled out of bed and looked out unto the balcony, the first day of marriage was not any different than any of the other days before it accept now if you died I would get money, at that moment you could go sky diving according to the rules I had set up when you were younger. What is marriage other than control, and if marriage is control, possession, something a bit further than romantic love, bordering on a parent child relationship than we had been married for years before the sunrise. I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl as the sky turned from colbalt to powder. At that moment according to religion and tradition we were not married, at that moment according to religion and tradition we were sinners and would always be because we made our vows long before any judge or priest deemed it legal or sacred.

I deemed it sacred when blood rushed down my thighs and from that day on nothing was going to break.

The wedding was not ours, it was for others, it was for the family, the friends, we chose a unitarian church because of my Christianity and your childhood temple being a Unitarian barn and I refused to take your last name. There are too few of my kind to have me seperate from them and the sound of Laura Christianna Cecilia Hurwitz is not pleasant. There was conversations among others other than us about what name the children would take, we never told them what the doctors had told me after the birth of my scars. Let them speak of grandchildren, I want their hope not their pity. Let them hope until their last breath. I grew tired yet excited as the day came near, formalities always do such things to me. I wore white as all brides do, you wore leather pants at my bidding and my cousins and siblings chuckles. We both wore our hair out, maybe I just wanted to encourage the comments of children, maybe it was because of that time you whispered in my ear when I had finally given in to your dark eyes and sweet smelling skin. That was the thought, the memory I took down the aisle with me and a smile played on my lips.
Thursday, May 23rd, 2002
3:37 am
Sometime during the night I woke up and climbed out of bed. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light, looking back momentarily to see you sleeping on your side of the bed with your beluga in your arms. I stepped into the shower with no need to close the door and began to wash the dried sweat and semen off of and from out of my body. Sometimes I stop to curse these things and then I remember the stories I've heard of some girls who can't use such simple pills for even simplier reasons, from there I go about my task ungrudingly. I crouch down on my haunches in the bathtub, feeling the water hit my back and then stream unto the black surface.

I remember when we built this house, we made sure to make as much of it black as possible, and as much of it white as possible so that one day if it was ever burned down it would be the color it was meant to be, gray. There are no children due to the accident I had years ago but that's okay, the scars have healed nicely, I sometimes find myself tracing the one across my stomach mindlessly in moments such as this. They don't bother me because they have left my face as innocent as the day it was created, my body is merely crisscrossed at points that no one ever sees except for me and you and the health profressionals who broke the news to me. They asked me if I wanted them to rip out my ovaries or my uterus so that doomed pregnancies could never happen, so that I would never end up on the floor covered in the blood of some unnamed child who would end up ashes at the bottom of a forgotten fire, me crying out for you that something is wrong, something has happened that they told me would happen. Instead I take a pink pill everyday. It took awhile to get used to taking a pill everyday but soon enough I got the hang of it. I had enough scars to last me for a long time and having a piece of my body removed was not my idea of the ideal.

I turn off the water, I can hear you snoring the night away with nothing to do the next morning. All we have planned in lunch and dinner and love. It is a simple enough existance and I wonder why we never get tired of each other and I wonder sometimes if it would be easier if we never saw each other, if our time would be more precious or just more strained. I try not to think of the possibilities, of all the endless things that could go wrong or right or what may have been or what could have been. Somedays I half awake to the feeling of you tracing my scars. I don't move. I don't want to startle you, I don't want to make you feel ashamed about your curiousity, your fascination, sometimes I can feel you doing the same thing to the streaks of white in my hair, no accident, just genetics. It is comforting to have you looking at me so and not feeling any disgust, pity, or want for children or someone with still young hair, hair that will somehow match a face that finds a way to never age, a body that could be as white, translucent, without the shiny redness of broken flesh and skin too weak to fully heal no matter how many expensive body washes and moisturizers are applied.

When I first woke up everyone told me that I was still beautiful, everyone told me that I was the same person, that no one would ever think less of me if they saw me naked, if they had me in bed, no one would ever look twice if I wore a bikini, it my clothing slipped when I bent over to reveal the inch thick line that stretches diagnonal across my back. I believed no one except you. I could feel their fear, their pity, their thankfulness that it was not them that had this curse, that it was not them that were damaged goods. I felt your hands on my back the same as they had always gone unto my back, the same as they always would.

When beautiful left your lips for the first time since my eyes opened after the surgery it was not tainted.

After two years I began to be able to imagine the world through your eyes. After ten I have adopted your view especially of myself. I see only a manifestation of strength and beauty that cannot be killed by physical damage or weakness. We are riddles to one another that neither can explain to the other, we must merely accept the view of the other and take it as truth. This is the trust that is love.

I dry myself off carefully, we always make sure to have the softest towels so that nothing is ripped back open no matter how old. I put on my moisturizers and climb back into bed. You are warm against me, still covered in dry sweat, there is a constrast between my smell and your smell yet your smell always wins, gains terroritory over both of our bodies, climbing back unto me each night and not leaving until the water hits my skin to wash away the soap. I pull you close to try to regain your mark and close my eyes.
Wednesday, May 22nd, 2002
10:28 am
So my worries were correct; the heatsink I installed on my processor fell off during the trip from SR, and my desktop's now a bit of a lump of silicon; smashed straight through the video card and so I can't turn it on, and I don't have the tools to reinstall the heatsink. Which is too bad, really; Paramount's on me for the Star Trek episodes I had on my computer, and now I can't do anything about it; thus the being in Nepal, and the sitting in a corner, rocking gently and singing "Happy Birthday to Me".

If anyone sees setzerg, tell him to leave my present in the nearest local evil monastery.

Too interesting? Try my rjyoung entry.
Tuesday, May 21st, 2002
12:10 am
Would you like a kumquat?
I would just like to congratulate myself on my recent canonization. It was a nice trick, that. Making them think I was dead. And to think, all the while I am running the largest grapefruit smuggling ring in world. Hee.

I'm thinking of expanding my business into kumquats.
Sunday, May 12th, 2002
10:52 pm
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