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Dear Journal, Or is it Dear diary? Ah, who gives a fuck, anyway, I’m not writing to anyone else. Never understood that, why you address an entry into a journal (or diary) as if you’re writing a letter to someone. Then again, why would you write something down on paper about your deepest thoughts, if your intention was for it to be unread forever? Doesn't quite make much sense, but, then again, neither does my life. I’m in a bit of a foul (or, if you’re in the Thanksgiving mood for really cheesy jokes, replace the “U” in foul and put in it’s place a “W”, so you (I, me, whoever gets a hold of Jake Bruno’s diary, journal, whatever) get “fowl”). Start over. I’m in a bit of a fowl (ha-ha) mood, so I’m not really going to write to much to you, my journal (diary, whatever). It’s almost Turkey Day, as if you (I, me, whoever) didn’t figure that out, and I’m up past my head in a virtual shit river of school work, my relationship is falling further down the drain then a pet baby alligator (rat, lizard, whatever), and I have to go home a see my family and perhaps my so-called uncle since what happened mid-September. Fowl mood indeed, chums, fowl mood indeed. After megoth mindfucked me and set up mine and Sandy’s (or Sandy and mines, if you’re ghetto) into sex acts, Mecca has been nothing but a fragile pain in the ass. But who can blame her? I’m glad for one thing, if I didn’t roll with the punch she planted, it would have surely broken her hand. I’m hoping like crazy this not feeling pain (or anything else that matter, haven’t gotten aroused in weeks, other than the usual morning woodpole) is just a built in defense mechanism that’s gone a bit haywire, and not me consciously using my powers. I guess I’ll find out this weekend, when I go home. I’ll see how Beck is feeling, if she got sick at all, maybe even I’ll tell her, as silly as that sounds. Tell m’dad too. Tell everyone. I kinda feel guilty I haven’t told Kelly about my so-called power shit. Figure that’s a big secret I won’t be ablt to keep much longer. There’s something about him too, not being affected by the mind blanker, I’m sure he’s been researching that at fat-boy’s room of late, been spending a lot of time there. He says he’s just playing the new Harry Potter CCG, of which I’ve gotten into a little bit but since I suck so, so badly I’ve given up before I’ve really started, but I know, well, at least I think I know, it’s something more. Whatever. He’s coming home with me (and as bad as my home life appears to be, always remember that his is much, much worse) and if he wants to tell me, it’s up to him. Secrets are scarce with us, so I’m sure all will be in the clear soon enough. Hopefully. Mecca apologizes, half-heartedly, and things have been on this thin crust of ice that’s just about to crack the last three weeks or so. I feel it’s almost over. I’m kinda sad about this, and at the same time, the idea of being single again is somewhat intoxicating. It‘s like the saying that you wish you could go back to your youth with all the knowledge you‘ve learnt (is learnt a word? It is now....), well, I’m still in my youth, and I’ve learnt a lot. But at that same time, we’re still really good friends and the fact that I’m basically guaranteed sex (or, was guaranteed before the shit hit the fan the size of a propeller) is hard to give up. Oh, yeah, I mentioned we’re great friends, right? The way she jumped the gun at seeing those pictures (of which I have yet to see, or even remember, though some part of me would like to...) makes me think she still has some issues left over from her betrayal of her old boyfriend. I would ask her about it, but, we don’t really talk anymore except the usual exchange of pleasantries and banal conversations (ie, how are you? fine, you? fine, how was your day? okay, and yours? okay...). And the fact tat they let Sandy stay (a vote, which she won due to the fact that Mercy was somewhere else, the Wonder Twins liked Sandy, and they let Sandy vote for herself) in their room is boarding on the knife’s tip of irony. I myself haven’t talked to her, nothing really to say. I feel bad for her. She comes to school and the first thing that happens to her is that some at kid mind drugs her into becoming a pawn in the Kill Me (Jake, I, whoever) chess game. That sucks. Really. A lot. But I have more things to worry about, like what I’m going to do for Flannery’s second year mid-term and a paper on the Modern Gnostic Philosophy in Herman Hesse’s Siddharta. Not to mention I never showed up for that self-defense class and the test on Molecular Biophyisology in the common field mouse, I’m, as I said, up the creek without a paddle. Or a boat. Or a creek. Well, like I said, I’m not writing that much because of my fowl mood (ha-ha). `Nite. J.B.11.19.2001. everything jake. #575 copyright 2001 mike rosenzweig    
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