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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Scott's LiveJournal:
| Saturday, September 30th, 2000 | |
| 12:21 am | Damn. Now I forgot what I was planning on writing about. Further updates will be posted as warranted. |
| Thursday, September 28th, 2000 | |
| 1:28 am | God, somehow, must have gotten ahold of some pretty good ganja, and decided to do something nice for me today. That or I unknowingly sold my soul to Satan. For today, I laid eyes on the single most beautiful creature in the universe. And her name is Christina. She is breath-takingly, stunningly gorgeous. And not in the sudden horomonal release I'll-take-any-orafice-I-can-get sort of way. But the kind where you simply sit still and admire, write sonnets and epic poems about, paint masterpieces of, cut your ear off for. And she now sits next to me in Biology class, thanks to a seating arrangement change. I had known her from a distance for quite a while, and thought of her as another pretty face. Apparently my vision has gone seriously downhill. She is the pretty face. She is somewhat shorter than me (I'm about 5'10"), with raven-black shoulder length hair, bright blue eyes that you could get lost in, an extremely cute nose, a very sweet, almost intoxicating smell, and the sort of smile that could make a grown man cry. She's not smart, clever, or well read, I don't think. And she talks to that freakishly tall, loudmouthed Emmy bitch. And applies makeup faster than the eye can see. And, chances are, she's well out of my league. But then, today is my first day having her as a lab partner, so I really can't make too many judgements. But even so, she's extremely nice and fun to talk with - not in that patronizing way people are sometimes polite to me with because they think that someday I'm going to bring an Uzi into the classroom, or because they want test answers. Yeah. I'm pretty scary looking. It's been said that I look like a cross between Charles Manson and Jesus. And her smile, it's ... beyond description. It's very strange that someone who I've had so little dialogue with (a video consumed most of our time today), and sat next to for only an hour and a half can change my mood entirely, and make what would have been another shitty day in an endless line of shitty days, an absolutely-fucking-great one. In a way, I am almost looking forward to waking up in 5 hours and going to school. My personal opinion: this girl is the Satan in the flesh. |
| Tuesday, September 26th, 2000 | |
| 3:57 am | For my French class, we have to write a 200 word essay on our favorite clothes. Thank Dog for Babel Fish. http://babelfish.altavista.com |
| 3:28 am | Raum is right when he says there is a sort of karma to bumming out cigarettes. A couple days ago I was able to obtain a pack, being that I'm sort of under age, that can be quite tricky at times. A percentage of that pack I good-naturedly bummed out to my friends at Boot Hill. That was on Friday, I think. Well, I'm without a pack right now, and that's okay. In a few hours, when it's time for school to start, I will steal two cigarettes from my mom's pack, which she innocently leaves out while she sleeps. I will smoke one after the morning bike ride, on my way from the apartment complex where I stash my bike, to the school. Then, the second one during the 15 minute break between classes. Come lunch time, I will have built up enough cigarette karma to be able to easily bum or buy a couple cigarettes off someone to fullfill my bi-hourly nicotine quota, once during lunch, and again after my last class. It all has this sort of delicate balance. Who knows? Maybe Travis will have a pack to sell. He does that. Since he happens to be an alcholic (at age 15), he steals a bottle of Vodka or Scotch from the local Safeway every night. While there, he might snag a couple packs of cigarettes, some of which he will keep for himself, and the others he'll sell at Boot Hill for a dandy price of three bucks a pop. He jokingly brags that he has the lowest prices in town. What a schmuck. |
| 3:17 am | Forever I've been putting on different masks to entertain or humor people and better 'fit in,' while somehow retaining my own personality somehow lingering on the sidelines. I'll change my humor or personality to fit in with the different groups or cliques around school - the stoners, the preps, the wannabe goths, the technophiles, etc. Depending on what group I'm with, people tell me their problems, and all sorts of things. And I respond accordingly, fitting my attitude to the state they're in to maintain a friendship. It's sort of a manipulative game I play - because, for the most part, the people I hang out with, or people in general, are so fucking stupid, it's easy to give them what they want on a social level. I humor people like that, and it rarely it leads to a problem. But the worst part of it all is that I'm constantly searching for someone I can really be me with. Who I don't have to worry about putting a mask on with. Someone to be my equal - that I can freely share ideas with, who I can communicate with, that sort of thing. Who can truly inspire me, or bring something new to my eyes that I haven't seen before in one state or another. Someone who isn't simply a rehash of someone else I've seen before and who I can't get bored with in a month. Someone who's mind I can't fit within my own. Maybe I need to get out more. |
| 3:09 am | Another Sunday night. More insomnia. Still more homework to do thanks to my wonderful skill in the arts of procrastination. I've been thinking. And that's always a bad sign. Social interaction is, in a way, a sort of an art. It's very easy to manipulate someone's thoughts, views, and ideals if you're able to understand how they think. An idea of become quite obsessed with as of lately, especialy due to the Lauren and Irene incidents. An interesting post-script to the Irene and Lauren events that I believe I wrote about not too long ago. On a whim, I started talking to Irene in this sort of casual, nice way. Somehow or another, she dropped her usual passive-agressive attitude and started relating all sorts of things to me. She wondered what my 'deal' was, why everything I said made her feel like a twit. I have to say, I had no idea I had that sort of an effect on her - it's so hard to gauge someone's reactions over a text based medium like the internet. Then, later, Lauren admitted that she masturbated to fantasies involving me. That completely blew me out of the water. I had seen her once, and only for about five minutes. It's amazing, I can affect people like that, but can't even get a girlfriend. Maybe that says something about how we have such a masochistic sexual culture. She tells me everything now, I think. All of her darkest, littlest secrets. I definatly think, that at this point, instead of being a Computer Science major like I originally intended, that I will go into psychology. From what I've learned, after often moving from place to place, and checking up on people in the past, I have a very potent effect on people. |
| 2:02 am | Do you ever wonder, 'what kind of fucking pricks do I have for parents to bring me into this world?' Whoah. Rereading that last line. I must be really bitter right now. I don't mean that in a angsty-teen sort of 'I hate this world, I hate everybody, I'm gonna kill myself, so there! Nyah! Thbbbtt!' sort of of way. I'm just wondering, if, once they knew about my conception, the sort of implications there are of bringing another living, human being into this world. And, most of all, why they did it after all. Did they think it would be 'cute' to have a little kid around the house? Were they pressured into it because it was the sort of thing that most couples their age did? I mean, where do they get off? As the Crass song goes: "Mommy and Daddy owned me until I could understand, that at the end of my arm, was my own fucking hand." |
| Sunday, September 17th, 2000 | |
| 1:12 am | Wait a sec... Okay. The Vandals are currently the best band of all time. Wait 15 minutes, and that will change. |
| 1:09 am | If I submit to sleep now, I'll be enslaved by a semi-normal sleep schedule. If I conform to a semi-normal sleep schedule, I might conform to other normal things. If I do that, I might lose my unique perspective on things that make all the girls think I'm a nice, sorta funny guy, but not the type of person to date. Maybe that would be allright for awhile. I'm such a jackass. And a self-loather. But I bet I have more porn than you. |
| 1:04 am | I love public places sometimes. Just because I like to watch people as they go by. Just normal, random people - some happy, some not, some alone, some with friends. Sometimes I take the bus to the mall and just sit in the food court or the center, where they have all those black couches, and watch. But my all time favorite has to be the airport. All of those people coming and going and going and coming. All of those mixed emotions. All different sorts of people from all different places on all different parts of the economic ladder mixing together for once. Rarely, if ever, do I dare interact. I am much too nervous to do that. I am, after all, a self-conscious teenager halfway through adolescence. Those are ugly words. |
| 12:56 am | Every cab driver I've had has told me about his sexual conquests while performing his job. At least one out of three times I ride the BART in a conversational mood, I somehow end up talking to a person who feels it's neccesary to tell me in great detail all of the women they had. Quite a few of them have no problems with pedophelia. I strike up conversations with the semi-crazies in San Francisco and Berkeley sometimes. Just because. Lots of interesting experiences. One guy taught me how to skip properly. I'm not sure how much different it is from skipping the way I did before. As my friend Drew used to say, "Dude, one day you're going to end up unconscious in some dark alleyway with a bleeding rectum." I wonder where that carnie bastard is now. |
| 12:50 am | I think I'm a magnet for really strange people. Whenever I ride the BART, I seem to encounter them in one form or another. Whenever I find myself walking around San Francisco or Berkeley, the same thing happens. By most people's standards, I'm a weird guy, so I suppose that's understandable. One time I was taking the train back from Berkeley where Wililam Gibson was making a guest appearance in Cody's Books on Telegraph avenue to do some reading from his latest book, All Tomorrow's Parties. On the way back, somehow, I got involved in a conversation with this guy who seemed more or less normal at first. It was pretty late. We began talking about computers. He worked with all of these old computers with tele-type-terminals and all that shit way back in the day, which I thought was pretty interesting. His girlfriend, this black lady who was obviously pretty smashed got mad at him for not paying enough attention to her. So she gets up, moves to an empty seat at the end of the train car, and starts shouting "Bitch!" at him from there. It took all of my will to supress a lot of loud, obnoxious laughter. He ignored her, and we continued talking. I felt bad. But I talked with the guy anyway. Then somehow we got talking about how we need to reform the world's government, and that the only way to do that was by causing some major survival-of-the-human-race catastrophe, in which, if only for a moment, the human race will throw down all of its differences and bond together. To make a long story short, I missed my stop. The guy insisted he give me cab fair home. He did, and he hugged me as he left. I momentarily felt violated. Okay, maybe it's not as funny of an anecdote when I write it down. Guess you needed to be there. |
| 12:41 am | Right now, in my mind, at this very moment, Bad Religion is simply the best band of all time. My opinion on this matter will undoubtedly change the next time my mp3 playlist rotates. I think a batch of The Doors is up next. For fuck's sake, you'd think that by the time certain people reach their sophomore year in highschool, they would have learned certain fundamentals about world geography. Namely, how to locate India on a world map. Apparently, the public school system has taken to allowing illiterate mongoloids into world history classes. Also, it seems as if the district wide required history circulum (I know I'm spelling that wrong, and I'm too lazy to look it up) requires only about half a week to go through the couple thousand years of written history that lead up to the birth of Christ. I'm a product of my environment, they're making me retarded. Just a random outburst. |
| 12:31 am | You ever get the feeling that you're missing something, just by being where you are, instead of being elsewhere? Example: Right now, somebody, somewhere, is having an absolutely wild time - possibly the greatest time of their lives. And I'm not him. All I'm doing is sitting in front of a computer and writing in this silly journal dealie. I get that feeling all the time. Constantly, I ask myself the question: How could I be living a more fascinating, involved, fulfilling, interesting, exciting, wild life? Well, I don't really ask myself How. I ask myself, why. I mean, how many oppertunities am I missing by just sitting here and not doing anything spectacular. Here I am, isolating myself from human contact, feeling completely unfulfilled in every sence of the word, and there's the possibility I could be having a really fucking great time right now. The idea won't leave me alone. |
| 12:24 am | Those sloppy motherfuckers at the Public Library wouldn't give me a card. I walked my ass out all the way across town just so I could pick up a couple books. Okay. There was a lot of them. Like the night before, I made a list of all the books I wanted. Ended up being 2 pages. Even so, I walked all the way out there, and they wouldn't hook me up just because I happen to be under the age of 16. Not unless a legal guardian is with me, they said. I feel like a good old Nazi book burning right now. Lucky for me, I made good friends with one of the librarians a little while back. She's cool enough to let that slip. Besides, she knows how pissed off I get about that whole age thing. |
| 12:14 am | Tomorrow I think I'll catch a movie with my mom. Probably that silly Keanu Reeves stalker flick they have in the cinnies now. We both agree that that silly guy is a horrible actor, but we still continue to patronize his movies. Johnny Mnemonic (which would've been cool, if they had a better director), Speed, The Matrix, now this. It's like some weird attraction. Like The Family Circus. A disgustingly conservative semi-religious one-frame strip that comes this close to making me vomit. But I still read it. Though they're playing some neat films at the Galaxy 8 - a previously big commercial theatre that nearly went under but has now reinvented itself as an indie cinema. They've got The Taxi Driver there. Would rather see that. Maybe afterwards I'll see if I can score some extra cash and take the BART to Berkeley to pick up some t-shirts. And maybe a good pipe. I've been meaning to get my own since forever. |
| 12:02 am | 2 years, 356 days, 23 hours, 49 minutes until I can legally buy a pack of cigarettes. 356 days, 23 hours, 49 minutes until I can legally work at most commercial establishments. I don't really drink, so that's not a big worry for me. Besides, alcohol is always in abundance within certain circles I belong to. Being 15, or under the age of 18 for that matter, sucks. |
| Thursday, September 14th, 2000 | |
| 12:46 am | There's this theory called Determinism, which, when I think about it, makes perfect sence. At least, to me. Market Analysts monitor ongoing trends in commerce and make highly complicated calculations which, depending on how 'good' they are, allow them to predict future trends. In a way, this almost allows them a limited view of the future. Take it down a couple thousand levels. At this moment, there are billions of chemical reactions going on in my brain. One atom bombards another atom in such a way that it affects the molecules of which they are part of, which in turn, might trigger an electric charge in one of my nerve endings, which might trigger a synaptic exchange or connection. This in turn causes other synapsis to fire, which in turn affects the function of my brain. Low level Chaos Theory, no? On a chemical level, we can predict the outcomes of certain stimuli caused by chemical reactions. All of these affect everything else. If I were to plug my brain into a massive computer that had the ability to analyze every single chemical compound in my brain, it could predict how they are going to act in the future. Connect it to the stimuli I receive through my sensory organs - touch, taste, smell, sound, vision - it could predict how those chemical compounds are going to react to such stimuli. This is a very frightening throught, because all we are, in essence, is chemicals reacting to each other. So, in a way, all of our actions have the -possibility- of being predicted. Which raises the question, is there any true free will? Since it's possible to predict one set of chemical reactions, what if we, theoretically, were to travel back in time to the moment the universe was created and analyze the pinhead size spheroid from which all matter sprang. We could mathematically predict how it will explode, and where the resulting matter will end up, and from there, how that matter will end up over time. Which raises the question, is there fate? If it were possible, we could analyze that tiny speck of matter which resulted in the big bang, and figure out how the future will unfold from there. So, in essence, all of our actions were already decided at the very moment the universe was created. I know I'm explaining this horribly. But, in all honosty, that scares the bejesus out of me. |
| Wednesday, September 13th, 2000 | |
| 8:43 pm | Mac Operating System X beta is coming out tomorrow. I mention this only because I like the commonly used acronym: Mo SeX. I talked with Mitch today. We laughed and recalled our plans to bring submachine guns into school and wear khakis and polo shirts while we massacred a good portion of the student body. Inspiration for this being that, for a short time, trench coats were banned from my school due to that whole Colombine mess. We just want to piss off the preps by making their garb of choice banned. And maybe kill a few of them in the process. And no, I'm not serious. But it was a running joke of ours. Of course, few preps wear that type of shit anymore. They're all walking billboards for Tommy Hilfiger (sp?), Calvin Klien, Abercrombie, and Old Navy. I don't have any brand name shirts. Most of them are from computer conferences or places like akpress.org. I go shopping on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley alot. |
| 8:30 pm | I've got this brilliant idea. When I become the emporer of the galaxy, I want my palace to be constructed entirely out of living dogs. Well, the walls anyway. They will be specificly bread for this purpose, most likely with a good bit of genetic tampering. They will do nothing but stand on each other's backs, and there will be several layers of them to form the walls. The inner-most layer will consist of female dogs only. They will be huge and constantly producing milk for those on the second layer. Which will be predominantly males, who will occasionaly copulate with the females as to maintain wall integrity as old dogs die out. The third and fourth layers will be mixed gender. Since they will have no access to sustenance of any sort, they will have to result to cannabilism to survive, producing this sort of Darwanism/Malthusian effect. So, eventualy, those on the third and fourth layers will slowly migrate towards the second, at which point they will have as much food as they like. Of course, they'll have to worry about the rather rabidly hungry dogs on the third layer. Of course, this will require quite alot of training and breeding, but once this is set into place, I'm pretty sure that the wall will be self-maintaining, as a set of order will fall into place immediately. The dogs will be packed so close together (being that they all want to reach the second layer) that they will provide a sturdy and well insulated wall. I can not see anyone assaulting my palace, as by doing that they would have to kill a whole lot of dogs. And nobody's that heartless. Everybody loves dogs. Plus, maybe I could train them to dismantle from their walls, and organize into attack squads. The only problem I can see is excrement. But maybe the really really hungry dogs on the fifth and sixth layers will eat that. Wow. What was I smoking when I thought that one up? |