|
WEDNESDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER, 2000, NEW ORLEANS |
|
I’m tracking you. You’re being watched. I can see everything you’re doing. What you’re wearing (or not wearing in your case, sir! Yes, you.) What you’re drinking and eating and reading and, and, and… The rampant feeling of power which is currently expanding in my network of endorphins and adrenaline and seminal fluids is causing me a sinister, sane - yet - something’s - not - quite - right - about - that - bloke laugh sound that resembles this: “Nyah-ah-ah—ahhhhhhh…” You have been warned. You may not have noticed my weapon — my x-ray specs — my Excaliber. I admit I snuck it onto these pages craftily… …artfully… (“Nyah-ah-ah—ahhhhhhh…”) …but you cannot escape my wrath. My omniscience. My Site Meter! There it is, down at the bottom of the page, and it’s watching you, Mister Guy — Missus Woman. Oh sure, you betcha, it’s watching you… (“Nyah-ah-ah—ahhhhhhh…”) …and it’s telling me all sorts of little secrets. Like there are hundreds of you — hundreds! … if not dozens! My lands! My power! My phallus! Like the average time you are spending reading my diary is 1.4 minutes! That’s 1.4 minutes of your life that I have claimed for my own propagandiferous gambits, never to be reclaimed. (And it also tells me that the MTV generation/internet chirren truly-ooly-ooly do have A.D.D…) (“Nyah-ah-ah—ahhhhhhh…”) It’s also telling me I have a reader from a country that ends with .sg who spent a hewge amount of time and clicks reading me treasured archives, arrrrrr… Nearly twenty-two of em! (Minutes, I mean.) And so as I wield my manly prowess atcha through your phone line, or your workplace’s nice fat T3, I see you shiver. Gulp. Look behind you. Modestly cover your protrusions… “World say-cloo-day-ed-uh. I see alllll…” —Magenta, Rocky Horror Picture Show. (“Nyah-ah-ah—ahhhhhhh…”) And my mad, power-driven ire requires me to beg the question: …why it is, is it, that I am not receiving more unsolicited email from you scared little chickens in the midwest, you koala-bunnies in Australia, or you … whateveryouhavethere in “.sg” whereverthehell that is? Don’t they gots any of that thar English tawk in “.sg?” And what is up with this Ivy League crap? You Yalers, Hahvahdahz, Princetonites, etc. You think you so smarrrrt? Peek-a-boo. I see you, sexy. C’mon, suckahz. This is your cue. I offer ample opportunities to email me. On a nearly daily basis. And alas I seem to go without, for the most part. I mean, shit, people, get on with it! Do you think I’m doing this for my health — physical, psychological, financial or otherwise? This is for your benefit, people, this whole diary thing. I don’t need to write this. I’m fuckin’ living it, aieet? So what’s yer problem? Why so shy, little man? Am I scaring you? Oh. Whoops. (Sheathing aforementioned manly-prowess-thing.) Never mind that. Sorry. As you were. A few hours later… The Marquis humbly requests your indulgence in forgiving him his most recent outburst. House Hunting is a taxing task and seems to have worn the lad’s nerves down to spitting, dancing, live wires. 
|
   |