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11.02.2007 - 23:56 Oh man, what's the point? Never mind all that. Here we go: I find no reason to write on Diaryland anymore, and this time I mean it. I've said it before, I've changed my diary, I started another fake diary and posed as Gandhi, I've come back to this old diary, but this is it. Here it is: I don't write in here any longer because I'm content with living real life. Maybe I wrote in here partly to have a fake life, or partly to escape the real and depressing life that I embroiled myself in fully in college, but mostly, I wrote in here to make the life that I live in better, to hope that this would have a positive effect on the life in which you can't shut the screen off and walk away from. Actually, that's exactly why, it just sounds better to debate three reasons. And now my life is better. Fucking tons better. And a lot of that can be directly attributed to this site. I made friends through here that I still talk to, I dashed away from the hell that was growing up very fast in college, even if only for an entry at a time. And, most importantly - and shockingly, when you consider the odds - I did make that connection with another human being here, the one connection that all of us humans raised in a society that enforces a Judeo-Christian ethic look for: find your companion, the person that compliments you in a marvelous fashion, the one. And it worked. And it's still working. It's working famously. Not that I'd ever suggest it to anyone else ever in the history of time. I wouldn't. I'm just saying that it worked out well for me. Very, very well. Diaryland did that. Diaryland facilitated positive movement in my life. And now I'm going to cast off my training wheels and peace out on my big boy bike. It's time. Today. . Even though I love what this place did for me, I'm done. I'm over it. It's not for me anymore. It was for me, but it's not currently for me. I don't want to write here anymore, I don't want to read anyone's diary, I don't even find a reason to snoop in my girlfriend's diary; I love the way she writes, it's why I fell in love with her in the first place, and I want her to be a success, but reading her diary is something I did when I couldn't be with her, when she lived three thousand miles away. I had to live with her vicariously and this diary did that every day, without fail, barring technical difficulties. And now that she's in my bed every night and I can smell her hair as I fall asleep and kiss her and tell her that I love her and that I'll protect her from everything evil in this world...my body doesn't feel that it needs that voyeuristic placeholder anymore. I don't read her thoughts anymore since her writing me sticky notes around the apartment and making me brownies is infinitely better. She can have her privacy back, and i can have some sweet-ass brownies. If she asked me to read, though, I would. I'm a good boyfriend like that. But I digress... . So why come back? Why write in here? Today, it's because she's visiting family and friends in India and she's not coming back for a few weeks and I miss her. And she still writes in her diary too, so I know she'll check this. Today, it's because I have an internet connection; normally we have to walk up to the coffee shop - so Seattle, I know - and use their free internet. Today, it's because someone who knew me from this land ages ago came and found me on that land and ostensibly said "let's be friends, let's be friendsters," so that made me a little nostalgic. But just for today. . If I want to write, I'll do it in my moleskine journal or on a slip of paper or I'll write an email to a friend whom I want to hear back from. But I don't want to write in an online journal right now. I don't. And it's a feeling that is so far removed from me that even doing this seems like a chore. Like it's foreign. Like an out-of-body experience. I don't need to have strangers see my thoughts any longer because the one person that I ever wanted to read them is - yes, still - in my bed. And, also, women can read their boyfriend's minds like a wide-the-fuck-open copy of "Hop On Pop," so she can do this without the aid of a computer; it's so redundant for her, and I think borderline offensive. . I did so many things here. I made a secret identity, I opened my soul and my brain and poured over every page I wrote in here even when I was fucking around but especially when I was fucking around, and I looked for the one, the perfect compliment to me. So: I found her. I have friends. I don't want to write online. Therefore: My life on Diaryland is complete. . My name is Kyle. I'm twenty five years old. I live in Seattle, Washington. I was raised on Orcas Island, which is about six miles away from the Canadian border. I'm moving to Los Angeles to teach improvisational theatre to little kids. My perfect girlfriend is coming with me. If you want to email me, do it at kyle.d.graham@gmail.com; the "d" stands for "duncan." If you want to call me, tough shit. If you ever want to see my face or hear my band that i used to be in, just find it on myspace, you know what to do. Stalking is so easy now and identity theft is so simple...who cares about this? Fuck it. If you want to get a hold of me and shoot the shit, then let's rock, if you want to steal my bank account number and take my social security number, you're welcome to it. You've just become the asshole you've been reading for five hundred eighty-nine entries. Congratulations, retard. Thank you to everyone I read, everyone I called, everyone I ever met from here, everyone. For everything. it all adds up. For better or for worse, it's all here. Thank you. Thank you. Andrew, you're invited to the wedding. This is one hell of a website. . *fin*
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