November 21, 1999.

As of today, I've been keeping this incarnation of diary running for a year and a day. This also means that it's been a trifle more than a year since I stopped needing to hurt myself. Which is always nice.

I still get email from my old site every once in awhile, wondering where I've gone. Travelling incognito, baby, where gossiping tongues cannot glean info. Then again, my ex boyfriend has found this page through a mutual friend, so I guess it's not that secret anymore.

Speaking of this effort in general, I don't suppose you've missed how sporadic my writing's been getting. I'm just not making much of an effort these days...my computer's in the coldest room of the house & most nights I'd rather not brave the temperatures to sit & write. Then there's the whole issue of leaving my room at all, now that things have declined somewhat with the parents.

It's ironic. I didn't really act like this when I was younger. I was moody, sure, but I didn't need to retreat as much. But it's perceptibly worse to be treated like a 17-year old when you're 23 than it is to suffer the same thing when you're 17. I'm so much happier when I can go into my space and close the door, when I don't have to clear my movements through Command Central, when...here I go. Whinge.

Today Q remarked that he didn't want Game to be a source of friction with my parents. I responded rather ruefully that it doesn't matter what fills the parental concern vacuum - I get the gears no matter what.

At this point, it's difficult to sum up my recent activities through a thick fog of indifference. I've rather stopped caring about my own story, you see. I wouldn't want to tune in to the erratic grumblings of a neurotic girl living at home and experiencing difficulties with her parents. I haven't done anything properly scandalous in ages...no slutty outfits, no waking up in places I can't remember getting to (like the couch with St. Stephen), no parties where I drink until I don't notice the Neanderthals trying to get me even drunker. The last time I danced to melt was over a month ago with one mad brunette; the only time I wear black lipstick lately is during Game.

I am so fucking boring.

That being said, I quite enjoyed Sleepy Hollow on Friday. I attended with Dav & Stacy & the Boy; we ate greasy fries, talked about comix & laughed at the dog-collar wearing goths coming in for the late show & writhing under the florescents. Dav made a case for their abiding attractiveness, but to me they just looked silly. I dunno; Dav & I tend to agree about the whole goth-as-attractive thing, that it's something we've mostly grown out of as an end in itself...but neither of us would object to someone of substance wearing something leathered & laced & torn.

As Dav puts it, "I don't want to go out with that girl. But I would like to meet a nice girl who'd wear that for me."