(diaryland) June 10, 2001 - 1:30 a.m.

I hate those memories that really haunt you. Like when your mouse dies. Like when you told someone something really ridiculous and every time you see them you think they still remember it. Like when you told someone the truth about something and now they know too much about the chemicals in your brain. Like when you said something so politically incorrect that everyone was offended but you didn�t mean it that way. Like when you ruined a friendship. Like when you got caught out lying. Like when you took a photo of your cat for no particular reason and he died that day. Like when you got so wasted, you told your friend exactly what you were thinking then and there and now it hangs over your head every time you see them. You told them exactly the wrong thing. You see yourself saying it every time you say hello to them. I said that shit to you. I really did. Do you remember what you said to me afterwards? Do you remember how serious you were? Do you remember how tired I was? Did your brain cells cover this whole fiasco up or do you remember it more vividly than I do? Why don�t you ever say anything about it? Do you wish you could just kill the thought when we are alone? Do you have questions to ask me? Fuck. You must be thinking about it too. I can tell. That�s what our friendship is about now. We are the only two people who know this crap. I didn�t speak to you for a year. You�re a better friend now than you were when it happened and it�s because of it but it�s also ruined. We could have been fucking great. But I wouldn�t have known you then.

You think about it all the time, probably.

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I can tell you now, folks, it wasn�t even sordid. It was just crap. Don�t say crap things, kids. I do not care how much ecstasy or alcohol etc. you have imbibed.

Honesty isn�t fun.

Purple dwarves never ran through you.

For you.