Dissecting Demographics.

My last cigarette just broke in half. This upsets me, because I was looking forward to it. It was the last one. I tried to mend it with a sliver of paper the way I did when I was in college and had to ration them due to lack of funds, but it didn’t work. I’m sure that this was a sign of some sort to stop fucking smoking already, but next time I’m in a store I’m probably just going to take it as a sign that I need to buy more.

This is why you shouldn’t start smoking, kids. It messes with your head.I’m always trying to find new people to read on here. I “random” around every time I log on, and I go through the recent entries, the readers’ choice, and the interests and circles looking for fun, interesting people. There aren’t many. I mean, who knows, maybe I’m just a giant snob. In fact, that’s probably true.

I won’t read a diary, for starters, if I can’t read it. If it’s electric blue text on a neon pink background, or if the text is this tiny or in this font, or if there are seven-hundred animations cluttering the page, then I’m gone.

If the diarist doesn’t know how to spell or construct sentences, then forget it. Sometimes it’s teenagers going “OMG LIEK SQUEEEE!111!!!!!!1!” but more often than not, the worst offenders are people who aren’t trying to be annoying, but just have no clue. “so i went to school today and we had a test and then i came home but first i went to baseball practice and then oh yeah we went out for dinner and then i called my girlfriend byt she was busy so thats it thats all i did today ok bye” And that’s the entire entry. Why do people bother when they have nothing to say?

I absolutely abhor angsty goth people. I’m talking about the people whose entire lives revolve around their misery, not the people who are genuinely depressed or, for that matter, genuinely goth. I’m talking about the people who take pride in their angst, the people who pronounce themselves as cutters and list all the medications they take on the front page of their diaries and who contemplate fake-suicide in every entry. Wake up, kids. The people who really have those sort of problems keep them secret. They don’t want the attention drawn on their problems. I’m not sure who these whiners think they’re impressing, but it’s certainly not me.

Pretentiousness pisses me off. These are the people who fancy themselves poets. Newsflash: shunning capital letters only worked for e. e. cummings.

i am so deep
the deepness runs through me like
sand through
the hourglass
and these are
like totally
the days of our lives

isnt it neat
how the lines of my
poems go
          in
               and
     out
l     t
i     hk     i
e     s
?

People who talk about their children nonstop don’t offend me, they just bore me. No, that’s wrong. They do offend me, because it’s like they had children and then gave up their own lives. It’s okay to talk about your children sometimes, but for the love of bob, have your own life too.

Along those lines, I won’t read a diary by anybody who lists “pro-life” as an interest. I suppose that’s hypocritical of me since I have “pro-choice” as an interest, but then again, at least I’m leaving people to make up their own minds.

I’m going to take a lot of flak for this entry, but I don’t really care. I will end it, however, by pointing out that there are diarists whom I like. I like the people who are intelligent and well-spoken, who have varying and wide-ranging interests, who are well-adjusted (or at least trying to be) and who are able to share with their readers facets of their lives that would go un-noticed if not chronicled in text. Basically, if I’ve ever left you a note then I like you, and I’m looking to find more people like you.

So, where are they?