Instead of writing to my friends

Saturday, 5 January 2002

A somewhat expensive Christmas present I bought for my best friend 2 years ago still sits in the garage.

A close friend of mine called wanting support and advice while telling me about having recently cheated on a spouse.

Another close friend of mine wrote to say he missed me as I him and didn’t compare the situation to anything painful as he has in the past.

I got an exquisite handwritten letter from France from a French girl I shamed into learning to type but never taught anything else.

I mapped my F keys with my .emacs file lately. I watched another episode of “Cowboy Bebop” I’ve already seen 10 times. I played “Syphon Filter…” I worked on a video I may never send anywhere. I walked on the beach and was very clever about knowing which birds were which. I ordered a new knife online. I saw a movie. I carefully avoided thinking about anything hurtful. I spent the better part of the evening doing stupid grammar tricks like:

sub an_a { s/\b(a)\s+([aeiou])/${1}n $2/gi for @_ }

I even bemoaned the fact that this is the closest I’ve come to keeping a journal in 5 years; that I haven’t written a letter in exactly as long.

I wanted to write something here called “Happy New Year.” The significance of 2002. Fuck you.

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