<a href="http://hewgill.com/cgi-bin/ljmarkov.pl">This</a> is pretty cool. Here's what it gave me:

1. defines me more money on charity. DO NOT FEED THE MONSTER. He handwrote that feeling when you mow it would kill me. Tyler wasn't hiding, or whatever. I thought the 15th. In Tyler's mad at the hospital, and I just stole the wild wolves like that? I don't even know where he put through a typewriter. He handwrote that should be fucking bestseller. This magazine was just escape that rich, greedy, power hungry men ruled by women and now I think I don't care. Jack I need every day Wounds need something, we'll steal it. I'd keep seeing broken vending

2. you find your perfect pair of people on a person kind of. Maybe he replaced them with the perfect fit. Are these people live like to just realized something. I tell this is the first person. Everyone wants to just on millions of me. Tyler trying to make me more money on Oregon Trail. I'm not talking jeans. The guests are blue, because Marla was an article about men. Are these depressing magazines. I'm one of his, and that anyone reads this magazine. You know what the generation of lip powder is, but she has brain fever. You can't sleep.

I'm having too much fun with this.

I uploaded some new icons.

This isn't a "what kind of icon defines me as a person" kind of thing. They were in the icon folder already.

Or Nestle's, or whatever. I don't even know what company sells most Valentine's shit. I haven't celebrated this holiday since 5th grade.

Marla was with me on that, but she was still pissed I didn't call. So I took her on a date.

It was OK, but she still doesn't get it.

I'd better post this before it's the 15th.

In Tyler's world, we'll all be fucking cannibals.

I'm testing Tyler's ideas on Oregon Trail.

I'm not spending money on anything. If we need something, we'll steal it.

I'm gonna watch us all die. Kalin was just on the verge of death, and used up all our medicine. I don't think Project Mayhem is thinking about doctors. Now she has brain fever. You can't steal medicine, so I just stole the money for it.

Us all means me, Kalin, and Petey. I'm not getting my own Facebook.


And I got my job back.

Sorry, Coil.


Tyler's mad at me and now I can't sleep. I'm taking the pills, so I don't know what he's doing. Maybe he's throwing them up. Maybe he replaced them with something else.

I just can't sleep, and I can't write anything. I know Project Mayhem's still around, because I keep seeing broken vending machines. I think this is Tyler trying to torture me, taking away Starbucks and all the soda companies.

Marla's starting to hate me too. But I know I'm complaining.

My boss called today and said he's not paying me for my psychiatric problems. That means it's time to make everything I know public.

At least that should be fun.

So it's not friends only anymore.
I don't know how I'm supposed to live like this.

I'm not killing myself, though.

I tell this to everyone at the hospital, and suddenly I'm swarmed with the kind of people I used to meet when I'd go to support groups. I don't want that, either. I think I need to just escape that place, but I don't want to go back to Project Mayhem.

I think Marla hates me. Or she's bored of me. She met someone else with a multiple personality, and now I'm not interesting enough, or something.

I could keep complaining, but I'll stop there.

Sabrina's mother (L's one of Sabrina's personalities, Coil's one of his, and I guess I'm one of Coil's) gets this Glamour magazine. I picked it up because it said it would tell me about my insecurities, which was bullshit. These women who write magazines about sex appeal know nothing about men.

But this magazine is marketed to women who will buy $56 lip powder. <lj-cut text="Type your cut contents here."> I didn't know what lip powder was, but all it is is translucent powder girls put on after their lipstick. That's a rip off. This magazine was selling dresses for $2720, shoes for $550, jackets for $465, purses for $350, skirts for $295, belts for $125. They printed a letter from some woman who wasn't too hopeful about finding shoes under $200. There was an ad for a slenderizing, 10 calorie, low carb, energy drink right after an article about anorexia. What are they really saying?

The best part was this ad: "You know that feeling when you find the perfect fit. And we're not talking jeans.
The Natrelle Breast Enhancement Collection. A complete line of breast implant styles to help you find your perfect fit."

Are these women going around having plastic surgery after plastic surgery, trying to find the perfect pair of breasts? How do these people live like that? I can't believe that anyone reads this magazine. I can't believe that I know anyone who reads this magazine. I wish there was wood in the fireplace so I could burn it.

I know I used to have a whole apartment furnished by IKEA, but I didn't spend over $2,000 on my clothes. I don't know what the male equivalent of lip powder is, but I never would have bought $56 shaving cream.</lj-cut>

I wish Tyler wasn't hiding, or whatever he's doing. I need someone to talk to so I won't keep reading these depressing magazines. I'm trying to cut this, but I don't know if it's working.

I just realized something.

I am a published author here. My poetry that I wrote is inside that book Fight Club, that's sitting on millions of bookshelves right now and that right now, somebody is probably reading.

I thought the rest of the book, so isn't that mine, too? That book's in the first person. Everyone wants to read about Tyler Durden. If I take out anything too personal, I've got a fucking bestseller. This could make me more money than the Paper Street Soap Company.

But I can't, because Marla would kill me. Tyler was right about the generation of men ruled by women and everything.

I'd keep a real journal, but everyone would read that the way everyone's read Fight Club. There's no point. I don't care.

Jack

I wrote a haiku today:


Or, alternatively:
Contrary to what Kalin thinks, I didn't plagiarize.
Contrary to what Kalin thinks, I like her.
Contrary to what Sabrina thinks, some part of me is involved in the writing process, and I don't really care.
Contrary to what Coil thinks, this still means I'm real.

Jack