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Saturday, February 14th, 2004
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1:03 pm
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| Friday, November 28th, 2003
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12:43 am - dinner á villa secretio
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I was dining with friends the other evening, when, as invariably happens when one has acquired friends with a certain predilection for the effervescent combination of salt and wounds, the subject of milkdropcoronet was raised.
How, one of my esteemed associates asked, can one such as yourself, secretio, love someone whom you have never met?
I of course laughed in my mysterious way and whispered "oh, but haven't I?"
Whereupon another of my dear companions threw his napkin down on the table and said "well, by gosh, no you haven't! Now what gives, old chum, why are you so dotty over this fruity piece of totty?"
Of course, when the subject is broached in such a forthright manner, it is best to return with similar forthrightfulness. So I stabbed my inquisitor in the eye with my cake fork and we continued our meal, discussing other subjects.
current mood: determined
current music: Love Song for Milkdropcoronet in Am7
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| Thursday, August 7th, 2003
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5:32 pm - what me serial killer?
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| Wednesday, December 12th, 2001
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11:00 am - La Chute
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In Albert Camus' 1956 novel The Fall, Jean Baptiste-Clamence states "..a certain genus, the worst and most unhappy, cries: 'Don't love me and be faithful to me!'" This probably best explains the turbulent relationship I had with my wife. We were only married for 4 months as part of an immigration scam; obviously I couldn't accept any love from her, and yet because she was tokenly my wife, I demanded faithfulness from her.
So in the months preceding the hold-up, I was in a state of turmoil and inner-rage. I had intended to vent all my anger in this LiveJournal to get it all out of my system. At least, the stuff which I thought I could get out of my system; the day-to-day work hassle stuff. The pressures of my programming job, as well as what was going on at home were becoming too much. Sveta had met some guy in a club and was bringing him back to my house regularly.
This was on top of my sideline work for the drug gang. I got involved with the drug gang through my high school buddy Chris. Chris had dropped out early thanks to getting hooked on Es and whizz, and a few years later showed up at my doorstep saying i had to help him out or he was gonna get killed. He looked like he'd been dead and resurrected already: his face was scarred from cigarettes being stubbed out on it, his clothes were rags hanging off him, he had only a few teeth left.
He told me this story about ripping off one gang for another gang in the hope of making some cash, but it had all gone bad. Now the first gang were after him and he wanted me to intermediary between him and the gang to save his life, tell the gang it was cool, give them their stuff back and try and get him straight again. I've always been a pretty much do-anything sort of guy, so even though I was pretty scared I figured I had to do what I could to help him out. I called the drug guys, met up with them and they made the deal pretty clear: as well as returning their Coke, I was to grow a dope crop for them in my basement and the score with Chris was settled. They even offered me a cut if I agreed to keep doing it after the first crop.
I was juggling the drug gang, Sveta, Chris and my programming work and knew I couldn't keep it up for long. I was being torn 4 ways and eventually something was gonna snap. It ended up being Chris.
Chris lived in my basement with the dope crop. I figured it'd be good for him to be off the hard shit and smoking as much dope as he needed and that'd be that. It turned out not being enough though, and he decided he needed the hard shit again. He fucked up by buying from an undercover cop and offering to trade dope for the Smack he wanted. The cops traced him back to my place and raided it while I was at work. When I got to my street that afternoon, I just turned the car around and got the fuck out of Dodge.
I knew Chris was too fucked to take the fall for the dope on his own and that I'd be dropped in it too. If not him then Sveta would surely've said something to get her ass off the line, and besides it was my damn house. The problem was, all my credit cards, passport, everything were in the fucking place and I couldn't get them. That's where the supermarket hold-up came in.
I remembered this guy I used to drink with once telling me about how he worked in a supermarket and what a joke their security was. After a few beers, he'd often go on about how "all you hafta do is get around the back where the office is with a gun, and you've got the day's takings, no worries".
I figured I had a choice between going back and taking years for the dope or doubling-down and trying for the supermarket and getting the fuck out of town.
After the supermarket I went and bought a few cases of canned food here and there at stores a few towns away as I headed out into the desert.
Now shit's settled down and I'm on the other side of the country, I figure it's time to rebuild my life. I don't know what's gonna happen next, but I hope it's more stable than the last year of my fucked up life. All I know is if fuckers try and make my life a bitch again, they will pay. That goes double for the fucking Jehovah's Witnesses.
current mood: accomplished
current music: rufus wainwright - cigarettes and chocolate milk
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2:49 am - Picking up the pieces (of your corpse I left on the floor)
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You just can't say anything anymore without being nitpicked by a raucous gang of livejournal thought-police. But I'm not going to throw fuel into the fire - their day will come.
My sorry and damaged life is slowly getting back on the rails. I've finally found a deserted house to settle down in, and I couldn't have made a better find. It has a concrete bunker-style cellar, which will be perfect for corpse and drug storage. It's been so hard living it rough for so long - being off the streets for six months I mean. A wave of nostalgia set in the first night I was in this place. That sickly-sweet sight of blood, the crisp satisfying smell of a freshly-fired shotgun. "This is it Secretio", I thought, "this is your new beginning."
But something's missing, something isn't quite right. My one motivation, my one shining light in this sea of red, milkdropcoronet, has been too silent since my last post. My greatest fear is that her silence can only mean I've blown it - she goes for chicks, not dicks.
There's only one way to cure this anxiety - cause pain. I've seen those Jehovah's doing the rounds in my neighborhood this week. It will only be a matter of time before they knock on the wrong door.
current mood: aggravated
current music: only the voices in my head
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, December 7th, 2001
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1:38 pm - this one goes out to the one i love...
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milkdropcoronet it is so good to hear from you.
when i was sitting in my underground bunker for 6 months, eating nothing but beans and drinking nothing but condensed milk-sweetened coffee, grasping my shotgun and listening to the footsteps of the cops above, all i could think about was you and your journal.
as rats and scorpions fought over what they knew would soon be my corpse, so many thoughts of you flooded into my mind. so many unanswered questions. questions such as:
"so is she really a lesbian or what?" and "no, seriously, is she a dyke?" and a voice came to me from the damp darkness, saying to me "secretio," (for that is my real name), "secretio, return to livejournal, for she will be waiting there for you. oh and by the way, yes she is a dyke but i think she likes boys too."
and when they day came that the news broadcast on my 2" tv reported that the manhunt was over, a wave of emotions surged through me. i knew i would be able to read your sweet words again and that i would once again delight in the pleasures of comments such as "that's a very interesting entry. maybe you need counselling."
alas, when i returned and read the news of your mother's passing and the end of your livejournal, i was filled with dread. was i responsible? did a stray bullet from the shootout downtown take out your mom? i certainly hope not, but if so, please forgive me. it was a fight for freedom and justice and any innocent victims, in the words of george w, died for a just and noble cause.
so now here i am, browser-to-browser with the only person on this earth that can both soften and warm my heart into so much molten lava. i find my mind straying to a certain question that must be asked, an answer that must be known...
so for real, do you go with chicks?
current mood: loved
current music: spiderbait - sex and insecurity
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| Thursday, December 6th, 2001
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2:46 am - I don't like the cut of your hair
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After that brief hiatus, I'm back. You wouldn't fucking believe how far the cops will go to bust a dope farmer. I been hiding out north for a few months until things settled down a little back home. Ain't got no house or property anymore - that's all been seized. Time to start afresh, you know.
Man I see nothing has changed. Those retarded yanks have gone and started another war, lead by the head turkey himself, Dubya Bush.
And livejournal ain't got no better.
What's up with this guy? He go to the dentist today and wants everyone to know?? And enough with the mundane stories of skating, smoking dope and flirting, goofy.
Hey Fearthiann! Nobody gives a fuck about your cats! Why don't you just tell it to your refrigerator, you might get more response. Jesus. People will write about anything these days in the assumption that somebody will take notice and have overwhelming pity or admiration for them. And before anyone has a go at me for being hypocritical, you can go fuck yourselves. And what's the fucking deal with the latest "If I was a ...., I'd be ....." craze?? Do people have to take these tests to find anything out about themselves? Stop wasting your time idiots! Or perhaps try the patented vile_secretion test - If you were a LiveJournal user, you'd be a fucking retard.
Go away.
current mood: nauseated
current music: Walter Carlos - Title Music From A Clockwork Orange
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| Wednesday, April 18th, 2001
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12:25 am - .
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Everything is just fucked up and i'm so sick of this goddamn material world and if i read another fucking self-centred, self-pitying journal or website by a woeful high school jerk i'm going to snap. There is no sympathy; only contempt. There is no puppy-dog love; only rage.
I want to tear open the lives of those who dare, and wreak havoc on the innocent until my message is clear. Nothing matters. Your fancy fucking cars and designer clothes own YOU. Your beauty is worthless. The race to the top never was. Your ego distorts your one-eyed vision. Corporations always have and always will rule your pathetic life. You are not unique and wonderful, you are a lifeless fucking tool.
I'll show you a world without care and pity if that's where you want to take it.
Somebody fucking stop me.
current mood: indescribable
current music: Wumpscut - Praise Your Fears
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, April 9th, 2001
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11:45 pm - Adventures in being a marketing wh0re.
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OK, so today I'm sitting in my cubicle, crunching out kode like a good robot, when my own personal middle-manager, Ray, comes over and asks if I've "got a minute". I felt like telling that misogynistic creepy motherfucker that I've got more time left in the world than his sorry heart attack ass.
Anyways, he sits down -- on my goddamn desk thankyou very much! -- and tells me that he's got a project he wants me to work on with this creep from Marketing, David. David's the kind of preppy, well-to-do silver-spoon bitch that makes me wanna puke. He's always "doing the rounds" and trying to high-five people for no good reason. Anyways, David's gotten some half-brained idea which needs programming and has asked Ray to work with me on it. Why the sonuvabitch singled me out, I'll never know, but I have no choice in the matter and have to drop everything to be David's personal code-bitch, apparently.
Anyway, David comes over to my little rat's nest a little later to describe his half-baked marketing strategy bullshit to me. I start coding what he describes and all the while he's in my ear telling me how to do shit like even understands what I'm coding. I give him the hint that I work better when I'm left the fuck alone and he scurries off to his cushy office.
So I've got a start on what he wants when I decide to go out and get some lunch. I normally eat in my cubicle to avoid seeing people, but having to work with that fucker made me ready to explode and I had to get some fresh air. When I get back, who is sitting at my fucking workstation but David-from-marketing! I ask him what he's doing on my machine and he says he saw my mp3 folder on the desktop while I was coding and he was curious to see if I had any cool stuff, "like Madonna's new album". I stood there for a second, trying to work out where the nearest sharp object was so I could garotte him there and then, when he pipes up with "i didn't recognise any of the stuff you had, so i had a listen. this 'einsturzende neubauten', is that german for 'clangy depression'? cause that's what it sounds like!"
At this point, I had already wrapped my wallet chain around my knuckles, ready to let loose.
Unfortunately I was in too much shock to tear his pretty-boy face off right there and then, and he escaped back to Marketing.
Just before 5pm I got an email from him saying how nice it was "working" with me today and how he looked forward to doing more "good work" with me tomorrow.
I only saw one person doing any fucking work today, Daaaaave, and it wasn't you, you spineless weasel.
I am dreading tomorrow.
Check out this guy's cubicle. What I wanna know is: where's the market for 12 fucking pictures of some moron's cubicle? I mean, it's not even interesting. At least my cubicle has character. I did it up with velvet and satin and shit to make it look like a coffin. It's all that keeps me going some days.
current mood: infuriated
current music: einsturzende_neubauten-headcleaner.mp3
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| Friday, April 6th, 2001
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7:28 pm - Stupid, crazy, fucked-up individuals
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Today almost made me do it, I swear.
The morons I work with are best described as defects of the modern-day gene pool. They often defy description. But they will have their day. Let me outline some reasons why they are so fucked up:
- stupidity. They are so stupid they can't solve the simplest of problems, because the act of thinking doesn't come naturally to them. So what do they do? They get little ol' me to take care of the problems! Can't they see I'm incredibly busy with my own problems right now?? No, because they are so stupid!
- personal hygiene. They don't know the meaning of the words. They stink. On hot days, the smell is simply amplified ten-fold. One day I'm going to spray anti-perspirant down the throat of each one of them to get the message through.
- loud. We know you love the sound of your own voice, but there's no fucking need to let everybody else know. Let alone when there are 10 of you retards in the same room all having a shouting match. The noise keeps going round and round until it becomes a blur and starts fucking with my mind and it's all I can hear.. all day long!
But these people won't learn, they can't. I expect the Neanderthals displayed themselves in a more civilised manner than these fuckers. I've had it. They have pushed me to the absolute limits of my sanity.
current mood: enraged
current music: The incessant ticking of a clock
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