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Daniel Molloy

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11th May 2005

9:58am: Hey all, this is Daniel Molloy signing in to tell you that Nicolas has changed my password on me and I am not going to be at NC anymore. Go ask him why.

24th April 2005

11:11pm: Well, I hate this fucking layout.

Any suggestions?
Current Mood: irritated

14th October 2004

9:08pm: Life ain't so bad, to use a colloquialism. Mom would be proud to hear me use the word "colloqualism." SAT word, you know. I ended up with a 740 on my verbal SATs. So I hope you can ignore the grammatical error in my using "ain't." Just because something's in the dictionary, kids, doesn't mean it's meant to be used. Unless you're Cletus the slack-jawed yokel, of course. But then, what is the standard American dialect? Is there even such a thing? I mean, it's like going to Italy and hearing the dialects of all the different provinces. Sure, it's all Italian, but you can't put a guy from Tuscany and a girl from Sicily together and expect them to understand one another perfectly. It's the same thing here in America. Who's to say a Midwesterner speaks any more properly than a black guy from Harlem who speaks any more properly than a California surfer? I mean, if you threw them in a room together, you'd get one hell of a conversation. And all of them would walk away thinking, "Man, does that dude talk funny." But within their own little spheres, they speak in a perfectly normal manner.

Fuck. I'm digressing again. I have no idea where I even started, now. I like to talk about words sometimes. After all, before I dropped out of community college when I was 20, I did pretty damn great in all my English classes. I couldn't afford to go to college, you see. By that point we had no money left and the shit jobs I was working weren't paying me enough to even feed myself. My mom was no help either. All she did was drink creme de menthe all day. I swear to God I can't even look at creme de menthe anymore, because it makes me want to throw up. But no, no, of course she wasn't an alcoholic. She "just liked the taste of it." I had some once. I really did throw up. That shit is awful. But Mom "liked the taste of it" so much she was drinking practically a whole bottle every day. I used to come home from school and find her lying partway on the couch and partway on the floor. Thank God I learned to cook, or John and I would have starved.

And then there was Kate. Kate, my big sister. I loved her to pieces. God, did I love her. She took care of us, until she went to college herself. She was four years older than me, and probably could have blown me off anytime she wanted, since she was the girl and the oldest, and had friends of her own. But she almost never did. She always sat down and played with me or helped me with my homework. We almost never hugged or kissed - my family wasn't like that at all, they were more of the "shut up or I'm gonna whack you like you've never been whacked before" variety - but Kate hugged me the day she went off to college. I remember that day. It was real hot, like the end of August or something. I was fourteen, and sort of gawky, real big feet and I was always tripping over something because I was getting so tall so fast.

But she hugged me and whispered with her cinnamon gum-flavored breath, "Danny, take care of Mom and John for me while I'm gone, okay?"

I think I just nodded or something, and squeezed her again.

She smiled at me and then disappeared into her dorm. I waited until we got home so I could lock myself in my room and cry. I knew I was going to miss the hell out of her, and I did. You can't imagine how happy I was when Thanksgiving came around and it was time for her to come home. Except she didn't. Some drunk asshole hit the car she was in. It wasn't even four in the afternoon and he was drunk already. He only ended up with like three years in jail, but my sister is still dead.

Jesus, this turned out to be depressing. But after years of really not saying this to anybody, I'm sharing it with you guys. Weird, huh? I don't even know most of you, but I know a lot of people read this stuff. I guess I wouldn't even be writing it if I didn't want people to know me. The real me. Not the me that Lestat thinks he knows or the me that Marius sees, or even the me that Armand fell in love with. Just me. Daniel Molloy.

And like I said at the beginning of this post. Life ain't so bad now. For me, anyway.
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