22nd August 1998
I found this notebook in the bungalow, it smells funny and the pages are already yellowing but I don't mind. I think my diaries are all I have. Apparently Nastya read my other diary and my poem book. Good. I'm happy for her. She just doesn't know how much she hurts me.
Tuesday 8th February 2000
It's 8:15pm and I'm sitting outside my bungalow bathroom near the orange tree making fires with Alli and Nina. I came out here with the purpose of writing something but it ain't working.
Burial day speech
Back in high school my friend and I had a tradition of writing a rant and then meeting up to 'bury' all of our frustration. Once we snuck out of our bedrooms at night to do this, went down to the creek, built a fire, smoked a joint and spewed forth our frothing diatribes of teenage pain. Needless to say, we soon grew wary of suburban creek noises: was that a frog? Can this sewer hole of a creek even support amphibian life forms? Is it the Sewer Man from X-Files?
Here is an excerpt rant from a 1998 rant, aged 15:
This is to racist, fascist arseholes, to NATO and the U.S. You didn't lift a finger to save half a million innocent Rwandans from being slaughtered yet you act like world saviours, flashing your fat fascist arse around Kosovo. YOU KILL MORE THAN ANYONE. All those missfires and regrettable accidents. Fuck you.
fiery little shit I was.