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Oh my God, he Updated...
Written on 2001-10-24, at 2:30 a.m.
dizboy’s disturbing daily diet…

1 Cinnabon (God, I needed it.)

1 Small Dinner Salad

1 12 ounce Prime Rib

3 Beers (1 Amber Bock, 2 Budweisers)

1 Raspberry Cosmopolitan

5 Cigarettes

I’m back.

I think.

Well, provided I don’t delete this entry like I have the previous two weeks, I’m back.

Where have I been?

Right here, doing what I always do.

Except I’ve had writers block.

Terrible, crushing writers block.

Evil, mean writers block.

The kind of writers block that tells you it will save you a seat if you’re late for the movie, but when you get into the theatre, there’s a middle-aged Asian prostitute in your spot, right next to a smug looking writers block chewing on some Jujubees.

I’m still feeling the residual effects, but I’m a feeling a little more creative since I ended it with my now ex-boyfriend.

Boyfriend? You don’t say.

I say.

Well, said, as it’s the past tense.

“John, why weren’t we, your faithful Diaryland public, made aware of this?”

Well, it was going on for a while, and I didn’t write about it because, well…I don’t know.

It’s my new policy to not discuss who I’m dating with pretty much anyone until I become positive it’s going to be a sure thing.

You see, I’ve taken up the ancient art of “Ninja Dating”, wherein you stealthily see people without even your inner circle of friends knowing.

It’s all very “Crouching Liza, Hidden Judy” of me.

Now…the boy.

He’s a very nice person, and I’ve known him for a while.

I just suppose that we were incompatible as far as being more than friends. He has a lot of baggage that I’d be fine dealing with on a friendship level, but not on a romantic one.

I think he was too...clingy.

He was like, um..Saran Wrap.

Which I don’t like.

But he kept my leftovers fresh.

Ok, so all excuses and explanations out of the way, I’m back now.
Have you ever had something, like an article of clothing, shoes, etc, that you loved so much you tried to replace it when it was gone, but it just wan't the same?

I had a pair of shoes like that.

Black, Doc Marten’s Boots.

I loved them dearly, and they were a trademark of mine for many, many moons.

I kept them young, I polished them, I bought them Comfort Step Dr. Scholl’s insoles.

But, some soulless bastard stole them out of the locker room at Disney late one night, as I was showering.

I grieved for the appropriate period of time, then decided that I would simply go out and buy a new pair, an exact replica of my beloved boots.

That was it, all I needed. They were the same color, same size, same brand, same leather…

For all intents and purposes they were, inch for inch, my old shoes.

But once they were home with me, for some reason or another, they just seemed like imposters. Frauds, trying to get away with some sort of fashion espionage, by posing as my boots in a sinister covert operation designed to dupe me into a feeling of nostalgia from days gone by.

As that first week went on, I grew increasingly angry with my footwear.

I looked at them with contempt, with their new, unmarred soles, and their scuff-free leather.

Like an unfortunate kitten, who’s introduced to the family as a knee jerk reaction to the previous housecat’s demise at the hands of the pool vacuum (Don’t laugh, it happened to one of mine.), these boots were soon regarded as a poor replica of their predecessors.

Had they hiked up the Matterhorn?

Had they stood on the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, searching for the perfect baguette?

Had they trod the streets of New York City an infinite number of times, aimlessly meandering for no reason other than boredom?

Did you first find out the truth behind the claim that they’re waterproof when you slipped off a gondola in Venice?

Did you puke on them after your twenty-first birthday?

The answer, was no.

These boots were made for walkin’, but that wasn’t what they were doing.

I eventually became more fond of them, as I forced myself to wear them, and break them in. Slowly, they began to take on the look of distinguished age I had grown so accustomed to with the previous pair.

I still have them, and wear them to this day…but I can’t help but think what may have been with the originals. Perhaps they would have fallen apart from overuse, perhaps they would have prevented me from my insane fetish for buying shoes by remaining the only ones I would wear, perhaps they would have solved world hunger, but who knows.

All I know is, they left some mighty big shoes to fill.

Be well…


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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