When I Die

Winter Mornings. Rich Guys Go Away.

First of all, I frankly didn't expect the kind of response I got for the entry called "Sentience". I don't know if you guys are putting me on or serious, but thanks. Come to think of it, I don't remember half of what I wrote in there. I'm not even sure I did write it.

And if you were joking, then you're gonna pay, because you've egged me on enough to write things like that more in the future. But relax, this entry's not goina be like that. So chill.

I won't be celebrating Christmas this year. I've got my exams all through December and the first week of January. I haven't celebrated it for the past three years, accepted, but this time I'd thought that maybe I'd do something; y'know, call some people, meet up, get a life.

Ah well, forget that.

I'm in a grumpsy-clumsy-numbsy-dumbsy-funsy mood today.

I've begun another journal--this one full of lyrics to my favorite songs and my wiseass wisecracks on them. Don't know why I put it up, but put it up I did. So if you're one of those who likes my stuff, you might want to read that journal--although you won't probably enjoy it lots. I wrote it in a bluesy-woozy-moozy-dozy mood.

My upgrade runs out in the middle of February. And I'll lose all the things in my port. I wonder if I'll be able to keep my journal, though. Free members cannot create journals anymore, so when I'm back to being free, maybe I won't have this journal.

So if this is one of the last entries in here that you'll read, let me tell you one thing before anything else: I love you guys. Thank you for caring about me and taking the time to read about how I'm feeling. Not many people have done that for me, y'know. Thank you for all your mails and kind words and pats on the back.

Oh, and this is not a plea for GPs or anything. Please, oh, please, don't think that. Come on, I love you guys; and I'm not that selfish. And if you're thinking this is a plea for GPs, you're gonna make me very sad and very mad. It'd hurt me to think that even you guys think of me the same way as the rest of the world does.

So I'll say it again. Thanks for everything.

Thanks for the toothpicks, princess.

Thanks for the honour of being called a God of Bad Poetry.

Thanks for the kisses and for being my owner.

Thanks for the threads of fate.

Thanks.

Okay. Back to whatever I was talking about before the nice interlude.

I'm walking again. The red line on my thigh is now brown. I had a lot of catching up to do for the time I missed lectures. Everything's almost back to the way it was, except for mom and dad. They're both hitting each other at their most vulnerable points. Twice I tried to intervene and talk some sense into them; twice I was flicked away like a mosquito.

Stephen Hawking wrote that things have a tendency to approach discord. Things, in other words, like getting screwed up. And boy, do I believe that.

Back to college. Seems the soccer team of us freaks lost two games after the one we won (the one in which I got that red gash). So now they're having a best of five. I'm not playing. No way. Nada.

Winter makes two things difficult: sleeping and pissing. And both are kind of inter-related. Almost every morning I wake up half dead with a burning fire down below. And a raging morning erection. Nothing wrong with that, of course, every guy has a morning boner and a need to piss. But man, try pissing when your pee-wee's all alive and grinning.

And being half asleep doesn't exactly help. Plus, the urine seems to jet out forever. I think I'll actually be able to count all the way up to hundred when I'm pissing in the morning.

I think one day I'll actually fall asleep in that toilet. That'd be funny. I mean picture this: one hand holding my pride, head slumped down, leaning on the wall. Imagine how it'd look to someone who found me that way. "He's jerking off in the toilet at five in the morning! Talk about perversion! Talk about desperation! Talk about bloody ethics!"

And telling them I haven't even felt like masturbating in God knows how long won't help. When it comes to adolescent (even post-adolescent) boys, everyone has the same opinion. We're supposed to be full of bursting hormones, sex, cars, sex, WWE, sex, racing, sex, soccer, sex, and... ahem, sex.

Aw, nuts. Look at me. I'm talking about pissing and masturbating, of all things. Shit. Quick change of topic.

Met Jan at college. Came home with her yesterday. Taught her a little bit of Logic Transistors. Cleared up a few doubts. I know that subject a wee bit. Plus, I don't get a chance to boss around often.

And no, I won't ever be a teacher. I shudder to think of what'd happen to all my students. Man, they'd be living hell everyday. Cursing me and calling me Hitler's illegitimate offspring.

There's going to be a nice new year's eve party at college . I'm gonna go. I miss the mike and the guitar. I wanna sing, dammit. I wanna floody bucking rock the place. Been a while since I screwed things up. To hell with the exams. I'm gonna sing and play.

I'll have to call up Mike and the others. I'm gonna do that tonight.

And I know exactly the song I'm gonna kick off that mess with. It's called "This Is The New Shit". It's by Marilyn Manson. Lyrics are in the Lyrics journal, if you wanna read 'em (but beware--Manson ain't one of those guys who says Sugar instead of Shit). The one called 'Broken Strings And Melodies".

But the screaming guitars will be a problem. Mikey lost his sleek Th-Pro a month back. We'll have to chip in to get him another one. Thing is, I got nothing to chip in. I'm dead broke. Hell, I don't even know what I'm gonna give Sonya for Christmas.

A guy has bought a Suzuki motocross bike and he brings it every day to school. Lucky fellow. Every time I see that bike, I drool. It's friggin' awesome, that bike. Blue, lean, fast. 100cc.

I hate that crappola jerk. I hate that fellow. Why'd he have to be so friggin' rich? Shit. Damn. Not fair. No sir. Kiss my bender. Not fair at all.

I told him all of the above. And he's so dense he doesn't know I'm dead serious. Thinks I'm joking. Laughs out loud and says, "joke on, padode (meaning fartface)." Well, buddy, I'm serious. Yup. Dead right.

That's it. I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I'm at war with every friggin' rich guy out there. I hate 'em all with a vengeance. Die, richie fellows. Die at the Holy Grail. And if reincarnation is really real, get reborn as bloody earthworms. That ought to be good, because I'm gonna be a Crow in the next birth. I'll enjoy munching on you, amigos. I'd like that. Really. I'd love it. Like The Who sang, "My Love Is Vengeance," and like Aerosmith sang, "Eat The Rich."

And don't you give me all that crap about how it's not their fault that they were born rich and how Fate is to be blamed. Fate is such a miserable jerk. I hate Fate. hate you, Fatey. Muchos Gracias.

But it's not all Fate's fault. These guys have no right to flaunt their amazing things. Making us poor blokes angry like hell. They should go to a place where only rich people live. Stay the hell away from me. Go. Go, rich guys. Go away. Please. Or I'll kill you. Promise. Muchos Gracias.

Something that's only gonna add fuel to the fire: the Access Virus (a bloody awesome modelled-analog synthesizer) is now out in a new edition. It's price? Ha, something I'd earn by the time I'm fifty and have all interest in music.

Hate it. I hate it. Hate the rich. Don't hate the company for pricing that synth so high though. It's truly an amazing peice of sonic wizardry.

Man, I just have to rant, don't I?

Stupid moi. Stupid, stupid moi.

Man, I'm in the same old ranting place.

Why did I have to come to India? It sucks here. It's a sucky place. Why ain't I in the US where I should be by my birthright? Why the bloody hell does life suck so much?

Why was I in such a hurry to get born in the first place? Why couldn't I've just waited till... till what? Hell, why couldn't I just NOT get born? Why couldn't I be another wasted sperm? Why? Why did that stupid egg have to let me in?

Why didn't I just bloody die moments after being pulled out of the womb? Why?

There were a hundred possible time when I could've died. Why didn't I die then?

Why didn't I... why didn't I...

aw, crap.

I'll stop.

Muchos Gracias.