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The sermon for Nov. 11, 2003 is: dissimulation 1:32 a.m. Hello, hello. I'm tired; I doubt if I'll be very witty. I was actually going to write about my self-piteous weekend; but I wonder if I should really remember anything anymore, at least remember anything about me. I'm not interested in myself; but the stuff that happens around me is sometimes interesting, sometimes funny, sometimes cruel; do I forebear writing about it because it happened to happen to me? My one, my true floodtide suddenly doubts whether or not I represent myself herein as I truly am. I find this... well, interesting? oh, I wish I could come up with a more forceful opinion; but I am tired; and presenting opinions about what people opine about me is problematic for this Catholic boy, despite its appeals to modernism and po-mo. Why do I find this interesting? Because admittedly I lie; I find invention inventive; and the telling of story and the singing of loud song has always sounded better to me with embroidery and flourishes and gestures. But this is my diary. Why would I lie to my diary? So, sweet flood: for all intents and purposes, I am not that garishly vulgar exemplar (as in common) of internet fauna -- that sly, scheming girl inventing an avatar, that hunchbacked child molestor inventing a bait, that scrawny hermaphrodite inventing a normative genitogography. In my communist, schizoaffective Walt Whitman way, I will agree, that does not mean that I am not not a sly girl, a posturing chester, a nypmh scrambling towards pupae. More simply, though, I'm just Jonathan. And lookit: tired as I am, I've managed to write all this crap without having to describe my self-piteous weekend.
 
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