January 2000 January 1999 January 1998 Rachel's Daily Diary _________________ Sunday 16 January 2000   11 13 pm pst   [ closer ] I drove to my mother's house blasting Nine Inch Nails' Closer and singing along loudly. I drive faster when i listen to a song with a fast beat, and Closer brilliantly keeps up a relentless pounding rhythmic, clearly reminiscient of the act of sex. I really like the line "you get me closer to god", because it makes me think of my history classes. Long ago (and perhaps still today [?]), there was a phenomenon known as cult prostitution. It was beieved [I think by Pagans], that one reaches god through orgasm, and thus women were made available for men to use to communicate with god. [A search will produce many pages if you would like more information on the subject.] Historically, women were always used for the service of men, but I will save that rant for another time. Actually, I will never write that rant. I save it for verbal exchanges.

closer you let me violate you. you let me desecrate you you let me penetrate you. you let me complicate you help me, i broke apart my insides. help me, i've got no soul to sell help me, the only thing that works for me. help me get away from myself i want to fuck you like an animal i want to feel you from the inside i want to fuck you like an animal my whole existence is flawed you get me closer to god you can have my isolation. you can have the hate that it brings you can have my absence of faith. you can have my everything help me, you tear down my reason. help me, it's your sex i can smell help me, you make me perfect. help me become somebody else i want to fuck you like an animal i want to feel you from the inside i want to fuck you like an animal my whole existence is flawed you get me closer to god through every forest, above the trees within my stomach. scraped off my knees i drink the honey inside your hive you are the reason i stay alive

My mum and I had a little cooking party tonight. I asked her questions about cleanliness. My mom is a bit obsessive-compulsive about it. I asked her if she though I was germy. She said that was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard of. I have long hair, and I always put it in a bun while it dries after I shower.

Before my brother went back to school, we somehow wound up in a discussion about how long deoderant lasts. Mine lasts for months and months. I tend to lose it before I run out. This goes back to the multiple houses thing I talked about on the 14th. My brother said his deoderant only lasts, which I announced was a ridiculously short amount of time. My mother came in for the kitchen. "Are you joking?" she asked. "How long does yours last?" I inquired. "Two weeks -- max!"

My mother loves a particular shade of jadeite/jadite green. All of our dishes are actual jadeite, and the silverware is "go-with" as well as a good portion of the contents of our house. It makes her happy, so what can I say? My mom and I are both collectors and both researchers. I certainly don't share her green obsession, but she tolerates my genealogical research, so we are even. I don't why this vase was in the bathtub.

I find the digital manipulation of images to be a fantastic art form -- one which I love very much. Cooking is also an art, and like a theater or dance performace, a meal is a fleeting masterpiece. There needs to be some sort of Pulitzer Prize or Academy Award for fine dishes.

Bracelets never fit me, because I have a tiny wrist. I love this stunning bracelet, which belongs to my mother. Rachel's Daily Diary * * * evolving entries * * * <   yesterday |   month   | tomorrow   >