READ ME ... yeah, right. Right?

I'm sick of everyone else having on-line diaries. I want one too.

What is this all about? Maybe you should read the READ ME READ ME.

june 7, 1997:
the playoffs

[*oth8m*]$self rearrange([NAME,[VALUES,VALUE],[DEFAULT,DEFAULTS],LABELS],@p)\;

[*oth8m*] oops

[*oth8m*] sorry bout that ;)

[*rebeca*] Can I quote you?

Man she was cute, sitting there in her light blue gym shorts and tan t-shirt, having her nails painted green. She had straight, shoulder length blondish hair and was wearing her sunglasses. Glamor, attitude and casual affaire.

"Wow, did you see that shot? The Jazz are winning?"

"Yeah, but if you saw the other games ... the Bulls turned around at the buzzer."

I couldn't believe it. She followed the playoffs.

"Yeah, Michael Jordan."

She turned to me and gave me a slaying stare. "Do you always go for the underdogs?"

Aw, man. That was cool.

"Well, of course! What's the downside?"

She turned back to the screen; put her hands in the dryer.

For too long, I have allowed other people to define me -- tell me I'm this way or that, what I like or don't like. I don't fit the mold for the typical anything, and that creates some tension. Over a year ago, I mentioned my attraction to women, just to be shot down and called a "wanna-bi" -- a poser. Well, call me a poser, call me what you want, but I know myself better than you do. And I just don't give a fuck anymore.

And the less I care about these things, the better things are. I want to talk about what is going on in my life, but there is too much to summarize. Things are swell. Never been better. And I mean that.

So, as they say, that's the news. You want the weather?

weird things that geeks do
tee-vee web
free the world

joinIN (if you dare)

thanks, COMOFLOW





or, if you must, back to Rebecca's Revenge

Copyright 1996, 1997 Rebecca L. Eisenberg All rights 17 Reserved.