why am i lisning to amy winehouse while watching silent rugby at 6 am local time?
sirb...@hotmail.com
what would baudelaire say?
Rachel
he would say, i was born on the very same day of the year that rachel
met bob dylan and fondled his buns.
Rachel
which, after staring into his mean ol' blue-eyed, black eyelinered,
Jokerman face, he spun around and stood there, and he said to her
angrily in her head, "DO IT!" (grab him from behind, which was her
wish once while listening to Dirty World). She opted to handle him
with care, and apparently walked up to him, she has no memory of this,
but then she does, and she gently placed her hands upon his backside,
the softest touch, and then they did the double shuffle across the
stage, and then she lost consciousness again as someone gently
assisted her from behind to the wing, and bob dylan marched towards
the back door, she saw him, watched, and cried out as he was standing
there in the doorway.
etc.. etc...
Rachel
she also went behind the theatre way after the concert, after getting
lost for a while, listening to the voices in her head, then she saw
bob dylan's bus, and stood there lost in a trance, staring at the back
side of it, just knowing, omg, Bob Dylan, and she was totally stuck,
then a man whizzed by her, and the wind blew her out of her paralysis,
and she followed him as he walked up to the door, and she was
literally right behind him, and he walked into the bus, and slammed
the door literally in her face. She walked happily away, screaming, "I
KNOW!" in her head, because she was scared to death that she had been
refused, and was attempting to be strong, because she thought she knew
that bob dylan had planned the whole thing, that they were together,
and going to be together in the future. it was kinda like the picture
in Lyrics 62-85, too, Open the door, Homer. She didn't have her tea
bag anymore. She ripped it up in the balcony, to smell it, and
"experience" it, because she was so excited that she had received a
present from bob dylan through a man in the wings, who knows, maybe he
already had it, just being logical here, unless bob dylan when he
marched out of the theatre for a while, went to the bus, and got it,
then when he came back in a few minutes, gave it to the man in the
wing to hand to poor Rachel, perched on the ledge, and then bob dylan,
after nervously glancing over at Rachel who was staring at him and
piercing her with his blue eyed flashes, after a couple songs sang,
"It Ain't Me, Babe" to close the concert, and Rachel jumped down from
the ledge, and went back to her seat in the balcony to get her stuff,
and experience her tea bag.
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
and now Rachel is so sick to death of this story that she is going to
get a lobotomy and hopefully forget it ever happened because Bob Dylan
is singing about her, and she is never going to be with him, and she
can't have sex anymore. haha.
and she really misses her father, who just passed away.
but still, life is good.
thank you mr. dylan, i don't even know you, and you don't even read
this, i need a lobotomy.
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
After running down the aisle and throwing herself with a leap on stage
without stopping, she even had the assistance of people standing there
who hoisted her mid-leap and going over to Bob Dylan whom she didn't
see this first time (hysterical blindness), he gently crooned, "Sing"
and she didn't, and now he is punishing her.
Does anyone have a sock? (for my verbal Bob Dylan diarhhea?)
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
Why do I keep misspelling that word? Two Rs, one H.
Dear Mr. Dylan,
How did you do it? Are they all nonsense songs? Was it all
coincidence? What are your songs about? haha
Love,
Rachel the Confused
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
maybe bob dylan's eyes were closed at the microphone when she went
over the first time, and that's why she didn't know they were blue
until she saw them in the middle of the stage when they were face to
face, and she was SHOCKED, and thought/exclaimed in her head,
"BLUE!" (she even saw the exclamation point). ?
like that picture from the catholic website linked through rmd when
rachel was on speed, and there was that picture of a man with a big
head, and his eyes were closed, and he was holding a clipboard. (there
was also another drawing of a recess peanut butter cup man, playing a
guitar).
they were both exactly like a figure she sent to bob dylan that she
desigend which she has described in detail in the archives.
oh g-d, i need a life.
maybe she's supposed to be a singer.
NO, I'M A WRITER.
THIS IS MY LIFE.
DAMN!
I wanna be with Bob Dylan.
(I'm not good enough to be a wife and mother. I'm too fat and lazy and
I smoke.) :(
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
"I got a gal, she's the screaming end
Wants me to be a hero, so she can tell all her friends"
Love,
Hero and Screamer (two of Bob Dylan's german shepherds, whom I met at
the Dume Machine bob dylan's fake house in Malibu)
here lies bob dylan, murdered from behind by trembling flesh
Love,
lady sun tan analyzing the albino terrorists in grandma's room,
flipping around, not really looking, just waiting for things to jump
out at her, like i think you are becoming a popcorn addict, haha, you
know me, (hot spring, 1994, at grandma's, up north in Berkeley/S.F.,
where i would lie out on the roof across from the golden gate bridge,
listening to bob, and got really really tan! :) )
P.S. It's true. My hands were trembling inside. I didn't know how to
touch him. I was scared. I thought it meant we were going to have sex
afterwards. And he had looked so mad. :/ (eek)
He hates me.
Well, at least I have a computer.
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
Dear Bob,
You're not real.
Rachel
Dear Rachel,
It was all a coincidence.
Bob
Dear Bob,
I've gone insane.
Rachel
Dear Rachel,
You're crazy, but goddamn, you're my chick (tarantula).
Bob
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I just wanna be with you so bad. But you are so crazy, you know what I
mean, being with Mr. Bob Dylan is so crazy, I don't wanna be rude.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I just wanna love someone so bad, with all my heart and soul, and
you're the only one. You know, my Pasadena picturing marriage
depression story.
You're the only one.
I'm so lucky.
I only wish you are as lucky as I am.
But it's totally insane.
So you are right.
It was probably all a coincidence.
That root beer stick I was blowing in the balcony was good. It was the
first one I can ever remember buying. It was a fluke. I had only come
across Tarantula in a New York City used bookstore in 1989, and it
looked like druggie crap, and I passed. (You're my singer). (I made a
mistake. It's a good book. I don't even remember it. I read it once,
and it was all about me, and like Marc, and that secret pregnancy, and
olympic games, and Lip something, and Kid Hysterical something. This
is completely insane. I can't be with you. This isn't real.)
I was trying to seduce you, with my proposal of a blow job.
You mentioned root beer in tarantula.
See the connection? You know, root, penis.
Bob, you blow me away.
This is impossible.
You are just a person.
Isn't this crazy.
What does it mean?
Who are you?
If you are a nice person, I am madly in love with you.
But unfortunately, I just don't feel beautiful enough to be a wife and
mother, and a Jew.
Know what I mean?
Sadly,
Rachel the Defiled.
Rachel
I think it's possible you are the world's greatest genius, and you are
my soulmate, but I just don't want to be your orthodox Jewish baby
machine. I don't think you really love me. I think you think I am a
piece of undesirable stupid meat.
I want to be your friend.
Giving up all hope to the most arrogant man in the world, heehee,
Rachel the Cunt from S.F. who doesn't need you.
(But if you call her that, and want her to scream, oh yes, I need you,
I need you, to make you cum, she will. lol as per your birthday party,
May 24, 1994, in S.F./Berkeley on the roof, when you showed up in a
massive hallucination, age 25, (You were turning 53, I was 23, you
know, like that picture from 30th anniversary concert, 53230, my most
important and respected picture of you.) I don't know how I know that
you were 25, but you looked like a kid. I didn't understand why you
would show up like that, because I always wanted you as an old washed
up has been. But I was wrong. You just get better and better, and then
you are going to die, so forget the whole thing, oh g-d, maybe I do
need you, to be normal, but this is impossible, you are a supergenius,
and I'm not good enough for you. I mean it. Good-bye.)
Rachel
Nobody cares.
This is so stupid.
Bob Dylan is so mean.
Bob, nobody likes me.
How come the world can be so good, and also so bad?
I can't handle it.
I must be bad.
You and your people are good.
I guess I was there to serve you or something.
I mean, there will always be bad things in the world, at least, as
long as I am alive. The world won't change that drastically, I don't
think. The sun will always shine.
So who are you, what is this all about, is there a G-d, what does it
all mean, I think you are very selfish, Mr. Bob Dylan.
I guess I am too.
But you got it good, because you are smart, you can keep yourself
entertained, and I am bored and lazy, and defiled.
I think it's your world, Mr. Bob Dylan. Or something. I got all these
crazy ideas that I try not to think about, it's so stupid, this was
all probably just a coincidence, and you are just a jewish rock star,
and you probably aren't all that smart, I mean, maybe you are a
genius, but you didn't plan it, I wish I could just forget all this
nonsense and get a life.
But I can't.
Because you are the best, and you know it, and so does everyone else,
you are making us all depressed, why don't you just go away and play
with yourself?
Haha, that's what I am doing.
Oh, Bob, oops, Mr. Dylan, what I wouldn't give to be with you.
But I can't go through other people.
Because nobody is else is good enough for you.
It's wrong.
And you won't call me.
Because you don't even know my number, you aren't even singing about
me, you have Alzheimer's and don't remember me, I am schizophrenic
like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind and hallucinated the whole thing,
you don't even exist, and I'm not good enough for you, especially
without your love.
Good-bye.
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
Are you a God? What the fuck does that mean? I thought there was one G-
d. Now I don't even know. I mean, then why isn't it all good? I'm very
confused, and this makes no sense, I know I can't meet you, because
you can never explain yourself to me, because it isn't possible, you
aren't human, this isn't real, I am completely insane. I guess it was
all just a coincidence.
I wish we could hang out together.
But I guess you are too good for hanging out. (I mean it.)
Love,
Rachel :(
Rachel
Why do you masturbate so much?
Just curious,
Rachel
OK, off to the shower! (Yes, I have been taking showers and changing
my underwear, now that I like it, and it's fun to wear. But I am
smoking again. That's not good.)
Dear Mr. Dylan,
Somebody called me today, and didn't say anything, and I hung up.
I just tell myself, it's not a sign, they are just f'n with me, you
are never going to call.
It's ok.
I understand.
You can never acknowledge me.
Love,
Rachel, Bob Dylan's imaginary wife. (stupid crazy fat chick)
Rachel
And of the Dume Machine
The naked truth is still taboo
Whenever it can be seen
Lady Luck who shines on me
Will tell you where I'm at
I hate myself for loving you
But I should get over that
Thanks Mr. Dylan.
I don't know what you are, and I know you are just leading me on, and
I am not good enough to be your wife. (and I will never be, without
your help/love). And why would you do that for me? You wouldn't. I
don't think I should have children, anyway.
Sincerely,
Rachel
Rachel
All for a moment's glory, and it's a dirty rotten shame. (That would
be me, the shame. In Kabbalah they said that a woman has shame.)
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I want you no matter who you are, as long as you are nice, and
relatively decent.
If you are a hysterical lunatic, like myself, then I can't be with
you.
Oh, the irony, oh, the tragedy, oh, the shame, the shame, the shame,
the shame, the shame. It's Rachel, and it's not a game.
Bye.
***
What if this was a secret Bob Dylan society/cult etc... and I'm
blowing the lid, and they knew it, I was just being used, and Bob
Dylan can't ever acknowledge the truth, that he is like a God or
something, of a secret society, you know what I mean.
At the Kabbalah Center, I was having auditory hallucinations, "Keep
the secrets, keep the secrets, keep the secrets."
But then they also said that saying "No" produced more light.
So maybe that's what Bob Dylan and I are doing.
I'm telling the whole world, to what end, I don't know, I was hoping
world peace, but that seems like a big dream, you know what I mean.
And Bob Dylan keeps touring.
I would tour with him.
It's just that I would prefer to live in a house/apt/condo/hole
whatever, not in a bus, moving around. Maybe I just haven't thought
about it enough.
I don't know what to do.
Does anybody not want me to be with Mr. Dylan?
My family thinks I am insane.
I think. (?)
It's so weird.
The weirdest things have happened to me.
Which sometimes lead me to believe that it's all G-d, it's all an
illusion, but I don't understand why it would be this way, it's so
confusing, I want to believe in G-d so bad, but I can't let go of
reality, real people, etc...
I've lost my mind.
You know, it's like that scene in the 30th anniversary video, where
they show a picture of a computer monitor, then two forearms cross it,
like the chiasmus of the ten commandments, and someone says, "Rachel,
Rachel, The Law" And this was before Bob Dylan supposedly even knew I
existed, although I used to think about what if there were cameras at
the concerts, and things like that. it's also like, what if I had
sang? Would I be with him now? And he should have just kept his big
ol' mouth shut, and I could have figured out what to do. lol.
Hey Mr. Dylan! I'm selling your videos! I'm making you rich! (just
kidding, whatever)
I am disappointed in myself. I am not good enough for you.
But I just have this hope in my heart, that you are nice, that you are
sweet, but then I look at your face, and you are like a stone, a rock,
a legend, a god, a mean old hard man, who demands worship and respect,
and wants to be called Mr. Dylan, and wants me to fellate him every
night like a needy slave. (like Marla Gibbs, I had to look that up, in
the opening of the Jeffersons where she goes, "Oh Yes, Mr. Jefferson
Suh!" something like that I forget) No, just kidding. You want me to
be a serious Orthodox Jewish woman, and ask you to marry me and give
me children. That's all it is about for you, I am just a fucking
preordained piece of meat, and you don't want to be friends with me,
I'm too stupid for you, you are embarrassed by me, YOU ARE ASHAMED OF
ME, and you are mad as hell, and you just wanna be a rock star and
share your gift of my songs and other work with the world.)
You say you are traveling the world, that's what you are going to do,
then come back and see me, and now you are going to South America,
just leading me on, like a fucking ass, you think you are Jesus, you
aren't, you are stupid Bobby Zimmerman from Hibbing, Minnesota who
didn't even know how to spell the word masturbate when he was in
college.
You are such a liar. You are never coming back.
You are trying to trick me that you are sincere, like buying property
in Scotland, like you really mean what you are singing about, and
there is just only one fact that remains true.
You know I exist, and you are not with me.
And you rationalize this away by thinking that you are serving G-d and
working for Him by continuing to tour and making lots of money.
You love your world, you love your life, and you don't give a damn
about me.
You probably say/think the same thing about me.
This is never going to work.
I wish you didn't hate me, like that girl said.
You are probably secretly married, and still having sex, even though
you are singing about me.
You are a complete turd.
But I just don't want to let you go, because it feels so good to love
you with all my heart. :(
Rachel
Nobody does.
You probably want me to kill myself.
I would do it, but I am afraid of going to Hell.
I don't know why that would mean I ain't going to Hell when I die, I
am probably going to be freaking out about that as I get older.
I saw something on here about someone saying you are an atheist.
That's probably because you are the most intelligent man in the world.
I'm sorry.
I can't respect you.
You don't respect me.
I used to respect you.
Then you used me.
You've been using me all along.
I guess everybody uses everybody.
Maybe I'm the user.
I'm probably the bad one here.
I need to learn to respect people and things, including myself.
I don't. (respect myself)
I feel humiliated.
I'm scared, too.
Why does everybody hate me?
You called me a cunt. (in my hallucination).
Somebody called me that once, in fifth grade.
A Jewish cunt.
I was really surprised.
What's wrong with me?
I'm so fucked up.
Never mind.
I'm babbling.
I probably ruined the Internet (Usenet).
I was just reading about this Kibology.
Hey, look at the time.
Rachel
*in* Kibology.
I've been consciously allowing the cross posting, too.
I'm trying to save the world.
No, seriously, (although it wasn't a joke) I don't understand how this
all could have happened, it must be coincidence, or something.
Or nobody is really real, it's all G-d.
I don't know.
This is too complicated for me.
Now I really think you hate me.
This is never going to work.
You're never coming back.
I wish I were smarter.
Rachel
I guess it's because I am crazy about you.
It must be my Viking blood.
Mr. Dylan,
Seriously, I can't ever go back to you. I am too ashamed. You are too
great.
Love and Respect,
Rachel Ben-Levi
Rachel
forever. (acting out my folly, while two discs in my lower back bulge
and burn, sometimes, it's much better now, for some reason):
Maybe my hands weren't trembling inside, but yes, I was scared to
touch him, how to do it nicely, scared to death. I was thinking of
this being the trembling from inside out rape number two when I
touched the Man, about murdered from behind. (number one rape was at
the speaker).
Maybe it was the scream from behind when he hit the doorway. In the
sense of, I don't know how to describe this, but the cry came out of
my belly, my diaphragm? I dunno, I'm not very smart, but it wasn't on
purpose, it wasn't with my larynx, you know what I mean, I think, it
came from terror inside that he was about to disappear, right in the
doorway frame, I had never seen that before, I have no recollection of
him ever leaving the stage at concerts, it's all been wiped out, I
never reflected on concerts, maybe one day I will forget all this,
too, maybe I shouldn't have ever done any drugs, I don't know, but
anyway, the point is, maybe that is the trembling flesh to which he
was referring, inside, which trembled and cried out right as he hit
the doorway, and then I was ever so gently turned around to go sit on
the ledge.
Anyway, this is all nonsense, because I was born the year tarantula
was published, so he couldn't have known, right?
Just like there is no way I could have known Mr. George Harrison was
really going to die, it was just a drug trip.
Maybe this was the crazy dream Bob Dylan is singing about, with me,
and it's the only one he's got, but it's not a dream no more, it's the
real thing, why did he have to be wrapped in blankets and nurtured
like a baby in 1994, it's crazy, Bob Dylan is the most special man in
the world, and I'm a loony toon.
He probably doesn't want me to think he is the most special man in the
world.
He wants me to love everyone equally.
I'm a super Jewish cnut, and it's a real world, and how can I enjoy it
when other people are suffering?
I guess I am going to try and enjoy it, but I can't with Mr. Dylan, he
won't do it, he won't come back, probably because he feels the same
way, he feels guilty, too. :/
And he's probably paranoid. lol. (sorry Mr. D)
No, I know.
You hate me.
I am so scared I am going to lose you.
I have already lost you.
You aren't here.
Maybe I should just start writing to you in journals.
I miss playing tennis.
But I am so f*cking fat and lazy.
It's true.
I am so lazy.
I'm sorry. :(
I hope you can forgive me. :(
I am lazy. :(
Rachel
I just went to check Tangled Up in Bob, and they are playing Santa Fe,
which is two minutes and ten seconds, which is excactly when I was
born, 2/10, and I said after reading the lyrics that he was just
trying to rhyme, and I wasn't impressed, and maybe that's how Bob
Dylan feels about me, you are just trying to have fun, to have a good
time, I am not impressed with you. :(
Also, I thought Santa Fe was just a really pretty song.
Maybe that's all I was to Bob Dylan.
Just another pretty face.
And now I'm fat, so it's too late.
But Bob Dylan made one super duper HUGE mistake.
He wrote she is not incredibly fat, but progressively unhappy. (she
moves with the seasons, and that is why she is my Lover something like
that, right?)
I am INCREDIBLY fat!
Rachel
It doesn't seem, no matter how fat I get, that I am becoming
progressively unhappy, and I thought, what am I going to do when he
dies?
I just pictured myself being all alone in the world, without my Bob
Dylan, and getting sadder and sadder. :(
Rachel
This too, shall pass.
That's what my old boyfriend whom I wanted to marry used to say,
before he broke my heart. I cheated on him, btw. It meant nothing. The
stories are in the archives. But maybe I deserved it then, even though
he didn't know.
Bob ain't no angel, and neither am I.
There, are you happy now Treadleson?
I have been explicating Bob Dylan's lyrics and writings and drawings
all day!
So there!
Love,
The Hysterical Bride, whose life still sucks, because she just wants
to be alone in a room with Mr. Bob Dylan, omg, that's so crazy, it
can't ever happen, I can't believe it, it's too good, there is no way.
He hates me, anyway, like that girl said. She was very believable.
he's probably married. He's doesn't mean a word of what he sings. Just
remember that, when you watch him. His work is a total joke. "Bob
Dylan" is a farce. Robert Zimmerman, I guess that's another story. :
( (He's a good man, he's married, I'm his soulmate, but it's never
going to happen, because I am not good enough to be a mother, and on
top of that, I would never marry him if he has been doing all this,
singing about me, and married another woman. That's totally
insulting.) (Ok, I would, I would do anything to be with him, but I
just don't have it in me, I'm too fat and lazy, no, seriously, I am
too ashamed, and I am scared to death, every time I go back to the
Dume Machine in sanity, I have been trembling.)
Rachel
SHIT! I kinda lied, but maybe I knew it underneath?
I was only remembering trembling walking onto the property with a big
opening and the "NO TRESPASSING" sign, until Kirby showed up.
But I knew I trembled, but I forgot. I mean, I know I was very very
nervous the first time in the cab, my head was down, it felt totally
wrong, but I don't think I was trembling.
When I was fried on speed, sick at home, and thought, this is
ridiculous, he's there, I'm here, (9/23/95 at night in Califonia) I'm
going, and went, without my wallet, to top it off, but that's not why
I got arrested, anyway, when I was petting Hero and Screamer, two of
the german shepherds, I was scared to death (trembling). Because I
thought Kirby knew exactly why I was there, to be with Bob, and how
would it happen? (I also got all nervous inside walking past Kenny,
the guard, because I thought he would say, "STOP!" but he didn't, and
I got really nervous, and kept going, sped up, then got lost, it was
all trees and bushes, and I saw the big dipper, and it took my breath
away, and I was just standing there staring at it, then Kirby came in
(appeared?) with the flashlight, gently touched me on the shoulder,
and brought me back to the guard house, then introduced me to the
dogs.)
He said, "What d'ya wanna meet 'im for?" (twice), I was just standing
there, not knowing what to do, my head down, and I thought in my head,
"SEX!" and kicked him to get away from me. (I could smell alcohol on
his breath, and thought he was looking down my shirt.) (My head was
down. I could feel his breath, and his face.) He threw me on the
ground, and that's why I was arrested, not trespassing, although
that's what the ticket said.
So, I am a big fat lazy slut.
I have no idea how to be respectful with Bob Dylan.
I know I am just gonna say the wrong thing, and make a complete idiot
of myself, and I don't care what his songs are about, I just want his
body. Just kidding.
Ok, fine.
Ring ring
Rachel: Hello?
Bob: This is Mr. Dylan
Rachel: Ah finally. What are your songs about?
Bob: I don't remember. I was high.
Rachel: Good. That's what I thought. Wanna fuck?
Bob: Sure! Be there momentarily.
Rachel: Bye
Bob: Bye.
No, just kidding. That was stupid.
There is no way I want to know what the songs are about, because it's
impossible, it means Bob Dylan is like G-d, like some kind of secret
society in fact, or just something totally unrealistic that can never
be, it was all a coincidence, I am blowing everything, I am ruining my
chances at getting married and having children by writing on the
Internet.
It's a secret Jewish conspiracy orchestrated by the Kabbalists or
something.
I want no part of it.
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
Wanna hear something mildly amusing?
For the first time in my life, I misused the word momentarily.
It's mildly amusing because in the body of the text it appears as
though junkie bob dylan said it.
have fun masterbating, mr. dylan.
love,
disrespectful rachel
i'm not even talking to him.
bye.
Babs
"There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound,
and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened."
Rachel
That sounds like a contradiction.
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
It could be an American conspiracy.
I have no idea what I am talking about.
I'm ruining everything.
Forget it.
Yeah, sure, you are traveling the world then you are coming back to
see me.
You are so full of shit, you are going to expode.
Why do I keep doing this?
He doesn't read it.
Bob Dylan won't give me the time of day.
It's ok.
I understand.
Just remember, those are my songs.
It's my brain.
Bob Dylan stole my brain, haha.
Rachel
>
> - Show quoted text -
Dear Bob,
Maybe if we had a baby, it would be Jesus. haha.
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
Don't you just wanna be friends? I'm an Internet superstar.
Oh well.
I know I'm not.
Google is probably hiding all of this, and even the link in
bobdylan.com is going to be taken away, and this is some obscure
Usenet group, and everybody is going to think I am schizophrenic.
Well, guess what?
I was already thinking that anyway.
I seriously think I might be schizophrenic like John Nash, but I don't
know where to draw the line.
I don't know what this is all about.
It's so confusing, I think I might blow my top.
Also, I am not a good person.
I'm too much of a risk for you.
And I should never have children, that's for sure.
Sorry to bother you.
Love,
Rachel
P.S. I know, I am totally insane.
Rachel
I think you need to stop what you are doing and write a book called
"What My Work Is About" and get it out there as fast as possible, so
we can all get on with our lives.
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I think I need to recognize that this is hypergraphia, and I need a
psychiatrist, so everybody who feels compelled to read me can stop it,
and get on with their lives.
Rachel :(
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I am not good enough for you, and that's all there is to it.
Rachel
P.S. And I can't try and meet you, because I don't know you. I guess
you are saying the same thing. I dunno, I'm all confused. I have taken
two showers today. My underwear is clean. I know, you think I am
gross. You think I am stupid. You are just using me. I am totally
confused, and I am ruining my life. I saw something in google the
other day. It was a screen where you could punch in the search, you
know, do a google search, I forget where, but anyway, and above the
box, there was a rectangle, and inside, it said, "CALL ME!" haha.
I hope you do, Mr. Bob Dylan of Blowin' in the Wind.
But I don't think you will.
But I have hope.
"Hope is a dangerous thing." - Red
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
You know what a Kabbalist in NY who heard about me from LA asked me
once (he's the one who told me, in 2001/2 you were married a second
time, first next marriage I learned about, then I looked it up and
learned about your daughter in expecting rain, or something like that,
a little fuzzy here, I was wasted.)
He asked me once if I was kool and kome? I didn't get it, but then
when I was listening to She Belongs to Me on 66, and you sing "when
her birthday..." and it sounds like "calms" like calm down.
(He also said once when I asked him if he were reading my profiles, he
said "not late lee") Never mind, I could go on and on, it sounds
psychotic.
The point is, I will never be calm around you.
This can never happen.
Or maybe it can.
I must be schizo.
I don't know what's really going on.
It's probably all just coincidence.
This is too crazy.
I have to go.
I wish I were normal. :( (sort of)
I just can't let you go. :/
(sorry)
Hognoxious
news:b89fad31-6d38-4666...@i7g2000prf.googlegroups.com...
> any suggestions?
>
> what would baudelaire say?
Let me out of this box?