Biting the Hand that Reads Me

So I went into work yesterday, and met the new guy who works at my store, Jeff.

"Hey, how was Calgary?" he asked.

"Fine," I replied.

"And how are Faith and A-Lo doing?"

I stop and look at him kind of shocked. How did he know who I was meeting down south? Is he a stalker who knows intimate details about my life.

At which point, I realize that Jeff is part of the Scorpio crew. And that A-Lo was telling me he was working for a store there.

He and I were talking, and he was telling me that most of the girls read this journal. Which made me realize, Hey, I don't write in quite the vacuum I think I do.

I mean, sure, I know about a few of the people who read me. Obviously, people like girlone and a few other diaryland members/choir friends. The Frenchman. Heath. Ka down in SF. A-Lo. Kingston. Justice. A few.

But, just for my benefit, I'd like to know who's reading this that I wasn't aware of.

So, for my sake, send me an email telling me that you read this journal. My email address is on the left hand side of the page. Go on. I'll wait.

This also made me think, "Should I perhaps lock my diary?"

Which I then decided against. After all, I wouldn't say, "Go read my journal!" if I weren't such a whore.

But, yeah. Gotta remember this stuff for later...

* * *

A lot of my friends on diaryland tend to write up things about me.

A random sampling:

- "A funny read."

- "Always funny."

- "Funny rants."

- "Corporate whore."

Which confuses me. Which diary are they reading?

Or do they find humour in the way I run off after windmills? Rage against the darkness?

Or are you all just a bunch of sickos who get off on my misery? Jackals!

So, my journal, in order to get a lot funnier, will go into even more inspired rants.

Yup. You asked for it, sickos! Jago's about to get meaner!

* * *

Some people have been asking about any resolution over Crazy Scary Painting Junkie.

Here's the scoop. After I wrote that post, the guy came in my room, and killed me.

A lot cooler than the truth, yes?

* * *

On my way to work today, I had some kid at the bus stop ask me what happened to the glass that went missing out of the bus booth.

"Not sure," I say, earbuds turned up to max so I won't have to deal with him.

The kid keeps staring at me, like I did something wrong, coke bottle glasses making his stare all the more unnerving.

"I don't. Know." I say. And run for the bus that pulls up.

God, what's the deal with crazies around me?