And I could keep going on and on here in that quasi-valleygirl bullshit and look at it after about a page and a half and then delete it all later. Find the clock has spun 30 minutes forward.
Take that last line, delete it. Re-type it as "there's 30 minutes of my life I'll never get back."
Change the "my" to "your" and the "I'll" to "you'll" to obscure who it's referencing, when I know nobody's fooled.
Space it away from the rest of the document to make it seem overly important and give it some feel of finality, like a sack of bricks thudding on the ground.
There's 30 minutes of your life you'll never get back.
Then beak into some overly poetic monologue exactly the same as all the ones before it, because in every one, I'm sitting in a chair in the dark, staring at a computer screen, typing softly to not wake anybody up, feeling like I'm completely lost.
Then, take the prose I've finally come up with, re-read it like I'm obsessive compulsive and throw it through two different spell checkers because I'm secretly the worst speller in the world and making a spelling error would be the end of my quasi-emo overly-aesthetic reputation for being "deep".
Resolve never again to use the prefix "quasi" with a dash before words, and also to stop stringing words together to make adjectives seem more complex like "overly-aesthetic".
Be sure to make the two words their own sentences to make them dramatic. Rewrite "control" to make it read like the key actually spells it. Look at the control key while I'm spelling it to make sure I got it right.
Then start a poem with the word "backspace". In my mind, fantasize that somewhere, someone will realize that backspace is the last button you press before deleting everything and starting over new, and then apply that metaphor to the rest of the poem and to my life as a whole.
Simultaneously realize that no one would be able to see that far into things, a handful of people if that actually read my poetry, divide that by a couple to find the number that care, and multiply that by 0 to get how many really get it or want to get it.
Make sure to put that "handful of people" bit into my actual journal entry to construct a flimsy denial and also fish for comments.
Push the idea back down in my head that every time I disallow comments, it's to boost the probability that someone will comment when comments are allowed. Also use denial to plaster over the fact many people could be laughing at me for writing shit like this.
Title the entry something ambiguous like "process" and be sure to not capitalize it.
Consider writing a poem about this very subject but layering it so far in metaphor that nobody would ever suspect it referenced this at all. Scrap the idea.
Think it would be fitting to end a poem that way with "scrap the idea". Also, begin to think that writing "it would be fitting to end a poem that way" and then ending the prose containing the statement with the line "scrap the idea" would not only be poetic, but ironic (be sure to say ironic, even though I haven't figured out if it is ironic or not... instead rely on other people's ability to call anything ironic and glance past it), and not only come through with that "loaded-with-a-blank" sack-of-bricks ending line, but most importantly stroke my narcissist complex by implying that even my words of prose are indeed poetry.
Be sure to use two of those something-something adjectives, the word "indeed", and be sure to call it "my narcissist complex" instead of "my narcissism" in the closing lines. Also, make them very long and thus difficult to understand without re-reading them multiple times.
Pretend someone gives a damn.
Cop a plea for sympathy.
Scrap the idea.