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The Concerned Citizens of the Inter Net.

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[18 Apr 2006|12:21pm]

This is stupid.
12 comments|post comment

[19 Mar 2005|05:16pm]
I was on the internet the other day and I saw some well funny things. The first funny thing I saw was that someone had deliberately put "intarweb" instead of "world wide web" or "internet". But it was deliberate, like they'd actually chosen to do it!

Then I saw someone trying to make a point, and to emphasise it they added a load of exclamation marks, some of which had been turned into ones in order to make it look like they'd frenziedly typed it with cack-hands. But this was deliberate too! Boy, was I bowled over.

The last thing I saw was in an argument. In an attempt to be dismissive, someone had written "Kthxbye", as if they didn't even have time to type out what they actually meant to say, let alone consider what the other person had to say. Again, it was as if they'd typed something stupidly - but that's not what they meant. It was actually DELIBERATE!

Honestly, the internet has given rise to such utterly original and creative use of language. Someone should give these people jobs writing sitcoms for the BBC.
20 comments|post comment

help only stoplivejournal has power! [06 Mar 2005|06:01am]

Once upon a time we were in love and things were good. We lived together and things were nice. Over the years things began to break down. She one day found someone else.
I eventually found myself caring for someone I should hate and supporting her at the same time.

I recently was able to end things and am now starting my life over again.

Unfortunately now, I found out that my first rent check is about to bounce. I am not sure how it happened, but I have only a few days to come up with $150.

Help if you can would be greatly appreciated. I don't normally do this kind of thing, but am not sure what else to do.

Thanks for listening.
8 comments|post comment

[19 Feb 2005|09:52pm]


Hello. My name is Jenny, I'm 16, and I'm a new member.

LiveJournal disgusts me. Thats why I'm on it almost every night.

2 comments|post comment

[30 Dec 2004|01:27pm]

[ mood | indescribable ]

Look, I don't know if you've realized it, but Livejournal has a lot of similarities to your boyfriend Ralf. There's the obvious stuff like the fact that you've never had satisfying sex with either of them, and that your relationship is largely based on passive-agressive attraction and the Catholic faith--but I mean deeper stuff.

For starters, both Livejournal and your boyfriend Ralf are on cocaine. Your boyfriend installs swimming pool liners, and can't even pull the huge rolls of plastic out of the back of his truck without doing a big line off the tail gate. Then he smiles big and drags it over to the newly minted concrete hole shaped like your standard rectangle, a figure eight, Barbara Streisand or whatever, and lays it out on the ground. He works for twenty minutes, and fills the pool up with water, and sits on the edge to admire his handy work. Then, when the glimmer of the sun on the cool water makes a brilliant white streak down the center, Ralf can't help but get caught up in a fantasy life where he fancies the glistening surface as the most perfect gargantuan line of Brazilian Coke in the world. He is so overcome with emotion that he must immediately go back to his truck and do another huge line off the dashboard.

Livejournal is equally as cracked out. Doing big lines of people's emotional vomit all over the world billions of times a day. Livejournal can't talk to you for more than twenty minutes without having to run to the bathroom, leaving you with inexplicable waiting times just to pull up your friends list. Livejournal installs pool liners, too.

Every morning when you wake up, you see the back of Ralf's head. You think about how you just want to get to the kitchen and make some coffee and pee, and have ten minutes with yourself. All you want to have are ten minutes with Ralf not running his big stupid fucking mouth. His big stupid crackhead mouth. Talking, talking, talking. Talking about how he had to go to the hospital, or how his mom died, or how traumatic some of his past breakups were, or about how he's a grown-assed man but is still dealing with shit about his daddy. Showing you pictures from the eighties and pretending they are him, when clearly they are River Pheonix. Doing surveys out of magazines, asking you questions, and generally pretending that he is the most important person in the world--all the while demanding feedback. Sometimes, you think, Ralf has got to be gay. But then you remember he's on cocaine. But none of this matters, because no matter how quietly you get out of bed, tiptoe to the kitchen, and prepare the coffee with stealth precision and shogun silence, by the time you get to the bathroom door, there's Ralf. Running his big stupid fucking mouth.

Every day when you log onto your computer, you see Livejournal on your favorites list. You think about how all you want to do is get some work done, or maybe actually read your friends list just to see what your buddies are up to. All you want are ten minutes. Ten minutes without all of Livejournals bullshit with a bunch of dramawhores running their big stupid fucking e-mouths. Typing, typing, typing. About how they had too much to drink, or how their lives are bleak and grey, or how bad their relationships are, or how they are thirteen, but think they own the world. Showing you pictures from porn sites and pretending they're them, doing surveys and all the while, demanding that you leave comments. Sometimes you think everyone on Livejournal is gay, but then you remember Livejournal is on cocaine, just like Ralf.

This morning, you were ready though. You may not be able to fix Livejournal, but you can take care of Ralf. You got out of bed, made the coffee, and went to take a satisfying good morning piss, and sure enough, there was Ralf. You mustered your courage and your vile hatred of Ralf and everything about him, took a snub-nosed .35 revolver from your underwear, and shot Ralf thirteen times in the face. You cut him apart and sent every fleshy part down the blender. You broke the bones into pieces and gave them to the dogs in the park. Then you cleaned up and had your coffee and your fucking ten minutes of silence.

And even still, despite the fact that you were able to kill and mutilate Ralf, and resume a normal life almost immediately after, you still can't control the beast that is Livejournal. I guess that's where they're different--Livejournal and Ralf. So go read your friends page, kid!

7 comments|post comment

[27 Dec 2004|10:36pm]

sitting in the car, driving it, wondering if this is the last car i drive, the last trip i take, and on the CD player is the band that makes the sounds that Weezer makes, and it sounds like

I've got an electric guitar
I play my stupid songs
I write these stupid words
And I love every one
Waiting there for me
Yes I do...
I do.........

and i drive and it rains and i pound my hand onto the steering wheel, so excited to hear the song, i shake in my seat, smiling smiling smiling, rock n' rolling back and forth and singing along and wailing away, and then i see, i pull up, and here i stop because i've pulled up behind

..............more..............Collapse )
3 comments|post comment

[01 Dec 2004|03:43pm]

my mom made me do the dishes last night

does anybody want 2 kill her for me
13 comments|post comment

life is like a box of livejournals [21 Sep 2004|01:08am]
[ mood | we are the bloggers, my friend ]

hypothetical situation:

a genie offers to stop livejournal, but says that thousands of innocent people will die in the process.

what do you do?

9 comments|post comment

[03 Sep 2004|03:22am]

brad rhymes with fag
3 comments|post comment

[23 Aug 2004|12:42am]

8 comments|post comment

[25 Jul 2004|03:13pm]

[ mood | Colon, frowny bracket. ]

The corruption of the Live Journal staff has taken the journal of a very dear contributor to the Stop Live Journal movement. 1justin, we loved you. I suppose that fateful post was the Live Journal entry that broke the camel's back. Figuratively, you had made a joke about fucking their collective mother. (Which is kind of ell oh ellerskates, since it was Live Journal's literal mother figure who ended up fucking you!)

This will serve as a reminder that the number on the Burger King bag that asks you to call and discuss with them any unsatisfactory service is really just the big shots kidding around. No one really wants to know the answer to the age old question, How am I driving? Questioning the quality of one's service is asking for trouble, and could put your ability to take advantage of that service in jeapordy.

4 comments|post comment

Blue Pencils [01 Jul 2004|12:49am]
[ mood | determined ]

I can't take it any more. You people - well, not you directly - have driven me to the brink. And I can't stand it any more, I really can't. I read somewhere once that every person has their breaking point. Or perhaps I didn't. It sounds like one of those cliches you just think you've read somewhere because you've heard it so fucking often, from other people who say they've read it somewhere too. Well, regardless of who wrote it, who fucking said it, I'm there. Breaking point. The freight-train of my sanity has been violently jerked from the long, straight rails of life. The soft, fleshy passengers inside have been reduced to a fine red stew of broken dreams. And someone's stirring it with a big blue pencil.

What does a person do when their only reason for waking up in the morning is to write about it?
When the only meaning in their day comes from discussing the meaning of their day?

It never used to be like this. I used to have a real name. My name was Iain Ross Cooper and I was a normal person.

That was a long time ago now. Almost four years since it started. Now what am I? I'm underlined text. I'm four characters and a little head-and-shoulders with no face. I'm a link. A clickable. A statistic, a number in a database, text on your friends list. Or not, as the case may be. Some days, I thank whatever God there is that I chose my old name, my real name, as my username. Sometimes, though, it burns out from the harsh light of the screen like a ghost, the ghost of my old self laughing at me. Laughing at my naivity in thinking it was 'just another website'. Well it's not.

I haven't left my house in two and a half years. I haven't turned my computer off for two of those years, except for a brief period of roughly four hours in 2002 when there was a powercut. I'm not sure of the exact length of time for that because I was too busy trying to cut my wrists with an unfolded paperclip to notice the wall clock, and I had taken my watch off especially for the purpose. Plus, it was too dark to see much anyway. But that was alright. I wanted it to be dark.

I manage to scrape together enough for crackers, bacon and my dial-up account by selling drawings of anthropomorphic animals having sex, drawn from photographs that people on LJ send me of themselves. I charge about ten pounds for a drawing, which is almost enough for a week's supply of bacon and crackers, which I order from Tesco's website. If I can't quite get enough money together, I order my bacon and crackers from America. The weak dollar and subsequent pounds saved more than make up for the lengthy shipping times and resulting mould.

I spend all day, every day, in front of my computer in the one-room flat my grandfather left me when he died. He'd used it for storage. My chair is blue. Sometimes I call it my pencil chariot. I spend all day, every day, in front of my computer clicking refresh. I spend all day, every day, praying for updates.

I spend all night, every night, crying. And then posting about it.

Except I've had enough. I was a bit melodramatic earlier. There is no true breaking point, at least not any more than a blue pencil can be truly broken. Yes, a pencil can be snapped, but it can be resharpened. Shorter, lesser, but still standing. Still writing. For some, such is life. But some blue pencils can't take being broken. As they bend and snap under the pressure, the shaft of lead inside fractures. No matter how many times you sharpen it up, no matter how many times you settle for less, the lead still keeps falling out. This is where I am. So last night, after drawing a picture of a grinning humanoid fox with glasses and a tufty red beard reaming the shit out of a squealing pig's arsehole, I decided that it was time for it all to stop.

I have two blue pencils in front of me now. They are real. They are also the last thing I shall ever have ordered from Tesco's website. These pencils are made to be broken. It is their purpose. I once read an "urban legend" in an LJ community about a girl who apparently commited suicide by shoving two pencils up her nose and then banging her head down on the desk, plunging the graphite into her soft brain-flesh. This is the method I have chosen. The pencils being blue was my idea. I thought that was rather profound, considering what has driven me to this point (excuse the pun).

Goodbye, Live Journal. Goodbye, Brad. You thought you had me.

You were wrong.

13 comments|post comment

[28 Jun 2004|11:12am]

Brad just kicked a dog outside my house.

The madness must stop.
3 comments|post comment

I'm a dragon [27 Jun 2004|11:19pm]
You're Element is Earth. You like plants and
flowers and have a very natural looking beauty.
You are a very innocent and maybe naive person
but it's only the jerks in this world that take
advantage of you because you are a jewel in
this world of rocks. You have many friends and
they all enjoy you as much as you do them. You
are skilled with your hands and would be able
to last in a more remote home.

What's Your Element(girls)? (PICTURES)
brought to you by Quizilla
9 comments|post comment

LIFE JOURNAL [17 Jun 2004|05:17pm]
"You've got Life Journal," the doctor began. I couldn't remember how I had gotten there, and told him as much with my mouth. "Yes," he said. "I'm not surprised. It's one of the main symptoms."
"Symptoms?" I asked, a note of apprehension in my voice.
"Oh yes. Life Journal is a particularly nasty little disorder, and one of its more conventional symptoms is to cause massive and seemingly random chunks of short- and long-term memory to be completely erased." I replied with a disinterested "Oh." It hadn't fully sunk in yet.
"Now," said the doctor, speaking as if he was giving a besuited official a tour of the facility. "Now, here's the fascinating thing. Look at this." He gestured to a mirror that was in front of us. Through a series of clever reflections, and an additional mirror, I could see my back. It was covered by a vintage-style stripy polo shirt I had bought from Topman. It looked like one I had seen in the window of a charity shop once. He took it by the hem and lifted it up to reveal a large smear of black ink across my lower back. "What is it?" I asked.
"Look closer," said the doctor, reaching behind me and pulling the mirror closer to my back. The ink-smears on my back were, in fact, words. I began to read:

"Today I went to the doctor's to get this Life Journal sorted out. To be quite frank, I'm getting absolutely sick of it. If I'd have known about this, I never would have started on LJ at all, but what can I do now? I hope he's able to give me something to make it go away."

I was shocked, surprised, flabbergasted, appalled and terrified all at the same time. "Doc?" I began.
"Yes," he said, gravely. "It's not pleasant, is it? And what's more, it'll keep getting worse. I'm afraid there's no known cure."
"None at all?"
"Absolutely none. I see kids all the time, they think it's hot to pick up that little blue pencil, they don't know the dangers, they don't know what it's like. Live Journal, they reckon. Live Journal. But that's not what we call it. To us, it's Life Journal. You mess around, you make a few entries. Before you know it you've picked the virus up through your fingertips - go on, look at them - " I did. The very tips had little letters on them, seared red into the flesh. They were layered upon one another dozens upon dozens of times, the illegible history of a life's addiction. The doctor continued. "Through your fingertips, right into your brain, then the next thing you know your memory's on your back. Anime smilies all up the inside of your legs. And God help you if you've posted quiz results." At this point, I blinked and noticed that the words "YOU ARE A LEMON" had materialised on the inside of my eyelids. I had taken the test just this morning, and at the time it's result had seemed arbitrary and meaningless... but now, I felt like the biggest lemon on earth. Live Journal was laughing at me. "That's why we call it Life Journal," the doctor said, his voice ringing like a sad bell. "Because it's with you for life, and it's not going to stop now. I'm very sorry, son."

On the way out, down an alleyway, I saw Brad with a cardboard box full of big, blue syringes. Each one was marked "LJ KURE $1 MILLIUN", and he was laughing through his toothless grin.
5 comments|post comment

[04 Jun 2004|05:51pm]
The other day I was walking down an alleyway when I saw Brad kicking a tramp, laughing over and over again, saying "Why don't you get a Livejournal? Eh?" inbetween the violent leg-arcs.

Something must be done!
12 comments|post comment

Welcome! [26 May 2004|07:22pm]

First order of business:

This man (the_passives) has unrelentingly posted accounts of various events that have happened in his life, and this simply must stop! Can someone with experience in these matters please contact the necessary authorities and/or have him banned from Live Journal? If we do not have success in ending Live Journal, it may have to due to systematically target and eliminate specific users!
24 comments|post comment

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