When I Die

By The Time You Read This I Won't Be Me

By the time you read this I might already be a "free" member. This journal may not exist (in which case you won't read this), or it may exist in someone else's portfolio. I don't know if that's legal, but I sure am gonna try to keep the journal at W.com--even if it's in someone else's port. It's the only thing that is worth anything to me.

You might also anticipate one fuck of an angry entry, and you'll be right. So if angry outrages aren't your thing, don't read. But before that, read this: I'm not--repeat--not angry at the person who kept me upgraded for all this time. She did me a favor that no one else ever did for these two long years. She blessed me. And I still love her. You want proof that love doesn't give a shit about anything? Here it is. I still love her loads.

I'm not angry at W.com, although I will be a bit disappointed if I have to send this journal away to another author's port, and I will be very disappointed if I have to take it off the site entirely. I still support every decision SM and SMs have made.

What I'm angry at is mostly myself. Angry that I still don't have any fucking money of my own. That I'm still not drawing a regular paycheck. And that I've always been so fucking poor to begin with.

No, strike that. I've been down that alley before, and I don't want to go down there again, cause it's like peeping down an elephant's asshole: sooner or later the elephant will shit on your face.

When I found out that she couldn't afford it anymore, I'd had a real bad bitch of a day as it is. Probably the stinkiest fuckarow of a day in the past seven months or so.

Won't go into the details, but someone died, and someone else lost a son, and I hurt my leg--yet again--and I just found out something else: sound engineering as a career option is over. Over.

And then this.

I'm starting to delete the stuff in my port now, have only got about an hour to do this.

And this is another one of those cosmic jokes. I'm getting a 24 hour inet connection on the 15th--the exact day I lose my upgrade. So when I have a real chance to spend the kind of time I want on this place, I'll have to wear crutches and contact lenses. Isn't life great?

In the past two months I'd almost come to believe again that whatever happens happens for the best. I can't think of a single way this could turn out good, though.

Fuck that. There are a thousand "free" authors here at W.com, and what makes me better than them to deserve an upgrade, anyway? What, exactly?

If this is the last thing you'll read in this journal, if this is the last day you'll see this journal, if this is the last day this journal exists--I exist, in a way--I want you to have a jolly chuckle. Just for the heck of it.

Have a merry Christmas, everyone.

And have a very happy new year.

If this is the last sentence you're reading in this journal, I want it to end this way: thank you for reading.

---Chimp.

At a higher altitude with flag unfurled, we reach the dizzy heights of that dreamed of world... - Pink Floyd, "High Hopes"

The sphere was solid with Plunkett, and only waited for someone to be in. Like, like the meaning of a word waiting for a word to be the meaning of. - John Crowley, "Engine Summer"