Wednesday, May 14, 2003
Hello Internet, it's me, J. Fyrste. I know it seems like I've been neglecting you lately, your pings, your packets, your switches, servers and routers, but that's just not true. I've meant to post to you lately, in fact there's a post I've been working on but you see it involves a moral lesson and since I'm very bad with those it (the post) has grown to epic lengths as I try to avoid the moral implications of it, and in point of fact I think I've found a good way around them (the moral implications) so I should be wrapping things up soon.
But a discussion of dithering and morality is not why I come to you today Ten-Thousand Myriads Interweb. No, today I come to you because it is my birthday and I would like to share it with you. You see while other people celebrate their birthdays with cake and small conical hats and paid for by their parents live-sex shows in their kitchens (for easier cleaning, I mean really, it's a real pain to get live-sex show stains out of carpet), I celebrate my birthday in my people's traditional manner: with an obscenity of booze and the speaking of bitterness about relationships past and present.
For those of you who may be reading this and may feel compelled to object along the lines of say, well J. as the only Chuckchi/Micronesian/French Canadian you or I know of this strikes me less as a vaunted tradition of your people than say a pathetic display of an immature, ill-formed personality, I say, shut up Dana. I'd say that during the three years of our relationship you should have learned that bitching about the day of speaking of bitterness only meant that on that day more bitterness would be spoken about you. Who are you to decide that my traditions are misogynistic? I suppose when I speak bitterness about Calvin and our experimental college years that's homophobic, too, eh? And where do you get off labeling things this and that when you were always trying to Euro-centrically trying to shove birthday cakes down my gullet. My peoples traditionally didn't have wheat let alone icing. We had yams and pigs and reindeer and semi-poisonous mushrooms and poutine and you always had to go rubbing that in my face with your delicious cakes. What was that about, eh? And while I have to admit that there may be something to the fact that eighty percent of my non-voluntary break-ups have occurred on my birthday as you pointed out you didn't win any points with me when your next announcement, on my birthday no less, was that you were breaking up with me. You were always so fickle. And you know, that's not even the worse thing about you as far as I'm concerned. No, the worst thing, the thing I'm still really bitter over was your inexplicable affection for "Dharma & Greg," easily one of the worst TV shows ever. No, wait the worst thing about you was that we only had one television so I had to watch that crappy show with you, and while I've done a lot of regrettable things in my life those hours spent watching the "wacky" antics of Dharma and Greg are the only ones I'd like to take back. You stole that time from me Dana, you stole them with your bad taste and I want them back.
Ah, well, I've got plenty of time for this. Thank you readers for indulging me in my birthday celebrations. I'll be like this all day albeit with progressively more slurring. Happy Birthday of Speaking Bitterness to me.
Fyrste, 7:59 AM