Sunday, Sept. 14, 2003 - 1:30 p.m.

12:25 p.m. Not wanting to sound too much like Carrie Fucking Bradshaw but still wanting to ask the question: Where�s the love? Where�s the good times? Where�s mine? Where is it? Tried of choking on my fill of promise of better, of happy, of tomorrow, of waiting. Finally ready to accept and face that it�s all just plain and simple bullshit. Still rebounding from my willing participation to be and remain na�ve makes it all the more difficult to acknowledge that there was actually a time when I believed the propaganda of working hard or being good or not kicking the shit out the neighbor or his barking dog or his bratty kids would bring an enrichment of fortunes or at the very least, love. Good old fashion toe-curling till death do us part I do I do love. So I ask once again, with a voice bitter from continual disappointment turned hostile resentment. Where the fuck is the love?

12:30 p.m. Gee, do I sound a bit down? A bit angry? A bit tired, a bit whiny? Maybe complaining a little tiny bit too much. Should I just get off my ass and create or manifest or work harder to find what it is I want rather than waiting for it to find me. Well, let�s think about that for a second. Fuck you! Fuck you and fuck me. You maybe right about some of it, about some of who I am, but you�ve also got me wrong and your perception of me is way off. Yes, I am angry and whiny and tired of being continually rat fucked, pig fucked and donkey fucked but to say I�m a "bit" any of those would be an understatement. Hey did I mention the part about being fed up with being misunderstood. Well let�s throw that on top of it all along with feeling a tremendous amount of under appreciation. Yeah, woe is me, fuck you.

12:35 p.m. They ask, "What�s up with Garloo?" They�re told, "Who knows." They reply, "He�s turning into a real downer." My reply, "Fuck you."

12:40 p.m. Luckily I�m such a cold hearted prick I can�t really feel too much of anything let alone pain. Two points for me. However, knowing it�s there can be a bummer regardless. Sometimes it�s tough being the fed up one that the pink elephant crowding the room decides to take a shit on thereby leaving you no option but to point your finger and with open mouth give screech ala Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

12:45 p.m. Contrary to the secret belief of others there�s no pleasure or satisfaction or erotic tingle from recognizing and outing the elephant. Theoretically, there can be some pain, some loneliness, some feeling of regret for a while but then all that elephant crap eventually and miraculously washes away. Doesn�t it? Don�t get me wrong, just because I�m a unfeeling uncaring self-centered asshole doesn�t mean I can�t, at the very least, smell the shit.

12:50 p.m. Maybe I should call Dr. Laura or Dr. Phil or Dr. Ruth and ask them where the love is. Hey, maybe Mother Love knows. Maybe I should look within. LOL. Maybe I�ve only got two options. Either accept that this is it or believe the promise that there�s a patch of green grass waiting around the corner. Comforting, huh?

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