July 25, 2013
I believe there’s something about knowing you’re gonna die within days, minutes, or seconds that is a Particularly Shitty Life experience. I mean, like Rosenberg, sitting in the chair,like un-numbered handcuffed souls on the gallows, rope around their necks, or… like Caryl Goddamn Chessman, on the cover of f*cking Time magazine when I was only, like twelve, sitting in the octagonal sealed room at San Quentin waiting for the end. Jezuz, if that don’t scar a guy, what does? I often have horrible nightmares to this day of a guy on a slowly-sinking ship, waking from a peaceful night’s sleep during which he dreamed of ‘life as usual’. He awakens to re-realize that he is, in fact, gonna die, which makes the dream even more sad, among other adjectives.
“Airplane drivers“, as all my pro pilot friends love to call themselves, are less rattled by the End. They realize that every minute aloft is a little gift from Bernoulli & Boeing, perhaps in that order. Thus the last words of a 737 going down are remarkably ..calm?
OK, I’ve had nothing going on in my brain except Death and Doom ever since I read, like millions of others, that Xanga was in trouble. It all started from, I presume, a single e-mail from Server-Svc-NJ-Inc. which said, in brief, ‘Dear Xanga.com, we would love to continue our relationship with your concern, however the $60K arrears you have sadly accumulated, makes this problematic./ Sincerely
ASIDE: A DEEP AND HEARTFELT THANK-YOU TO ALL WHO COMMENTED ON MY PREVIOUS POST CONCERNING WORD-PRESS. I am just too busy dealing with my personal life/ bankruptcy, to reply to each and every lovely commenter individually, which is my style here.
Not to mention the incessant helicopter traffic overhead. Who really knows what kinds of cameras they have mounted thereupon.
Bottom Line: I do hope and pray that there will be something recognizable surviving from XANGA after this weekend.
None of us deserve to watch yet another beloved entity die. I think of my final seconds aboard US Air Flight XXX, heading nose-down for the slum-houses of Bayonne, New Jersey, and screaming: “OMG, my Xanga Pulses: I forgot to Archive my Pulses.”