Every vanity that blames destiny for it's failure.
2001-06-05 - 5:29 p.m. happy barricade days! well, 5th juin, as the barricades go up. Down they come tomorrow, and no one else gets up, unless we just happen to be perusing Survival Fic. You know how it is. The 19th century boys made me buy brie and oysters, although they did /not/ make me eat them for breakfast. Thank god. My stomach is queasy enough as it is. I want to die. Oh god, do i want to die. I want to die long and hard and in such a way that tens of thousands of long, needly spikes impale my twitching carcass. The problem is, after that, I want to get up again. You see, I /do/ think I'm a god!! In my dream, the monsters all thought my friends and I were gods. The title of this entry is a quote from Pere Hugo, Book X: June 5, 1832, ch 1: The Surface of the question. i forget the proper notation; been too fucking long since i wrote a bibliography. I don't need to die, actually. I'm ritually dead, so it'd really be extraneous. Superflous. Egregious, which seems to be Word Of The Week. Vanity, vanity. The stuff that emeutés are made of. I better go write more fic.
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