9/20/97 - Discontentment, a Waif to Me.

     Anna and I celebrated our six-month
     anniversary today.  I really won't get into
     it too much since such memories are reserved
     for only the lovers involved, but I thought
     I'd just express my happiness as to how well
     everything worked out today, considering we
     had to celebrate online, instead of in person.

     Anna's package came today, after a couple
     long weeks of waiting.  Its contents'
     importance was immeasurable.  And the time
     of its delivery was perfect.  Don't you see
     the evidence mounting that this is meant to
     be by some powerful force?

     And might I mention that the ideas are just
     flowing like a fast-moving river now? (...a
     place where the beer flows like wine...)
     What I hate about times like THIS is that the
     Soapbox, by rule, cannot be posted more
     frequently than once a week.
     
     For those of you who don't just look at the
     personal sites which make it onto the "look
     at me, I'm famous" circuit, try Puce...
     http://www.vigilante.net/~puce/  I suppose
     what really blew me away about this woman
     was her long rants tucked away deep in the
     site.  I don't really go for her journal
     entries.  Too happy.  Too cheerful.  Too
     ordinary.  Okay, that's not true.  She's
     one of those people who finds the interesting
     things in even the most bland events.  That's
     a gift found in writers.  But let's face it
     -- when she's questioning what society and
     she believe in, and when she considers all
     the possibilities of whatever she's thinking
     about, that's when we see the glory of her
     style.  Anyway, cool site.  I'd just like to
     say that if it weren't for young, angst-filled
     teens like us, there would be a lot less
     interesting shit on the 'Net to read.

     Adults are boring.  We all know it.  They've
     already dismissed much that is interesting,
     or they've come to accept their lives and
     their dreams gradually fade away.

     Ain't being young a real treat, Anna love?

       "Would you hurt a man keenest,
        strike at his self-love"

                     -Lew Wallace

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