Stunned readers mulled the possible end of Wil Shipley's journal
by pondering cherished moments from entries past.
"Did I mention sex with her was really, really good? I can't remember if
I did. Ah, Zoloft. Gives me the memory of a fruit-fly.
"January 13, 1999 - lots of people send me email telling me I'm an
"One time we were discussing a girl we'd just met, and how we thought
she'd be Bad News for any single guy that got interested in her. She
started brushing her teeth, and I called out to her, 'If she were a
cereal, she'd be Honey Bunches of Bad News.' No response. 'If she were a
piece of software, she'd be Microsoft Bad News.' Nothing. I went on, until
finally she came out and said, 'If she were a breakfast at IHOP, she'd be
the Rooty-tooty Bad News and Fruity.' I busted up. She admitted, 'I didn't
want to, but I finally figured out you weren't going to shut up until I
"I've had bad luck recently in meeting women who don't really love Star
"I think love can be lost, and love can be found again. It's a matter of
respect. I think, as I got crazier, she started losing respect for me."
Shipley responded to fears about a fire in the office by grabbing a fire
extinguisher -- and curling up for a nap on the couch. "My reasoning here
was: if it's a real fire, it'll wake me up again, and I have the fire
extinguisher to put it out."
Kim Rollins emailed indicated Shipley misquoted the inscription on a
watch she'd given him -- and told him where to locate it in his office. "I
wrote her back and said, hah, smarty, I took the watch home, and it's in a
drawer with the underwear I stole from you."
Shipley regaled readers with stories of his reckless driving. "Headed
out to Bellevue to get fish supplies for ailing tank. Wasn't entirely sure
where to find carbon dioxide place, but Zoloft told me I could just drive
around until I found it. Zoloft was wrong, but I had my cell phone."
"I think possibly I screwed up and took two Zoloft last night (I
couldn't remember if I'd already taken one)."
"Slept all day and missed the sun again."
When a woman at a club declined to join Shipley's gaming group: "I watch
her and make little whiney puppy noises the rest of the evening."
"Don't you just hate that stupid "Place stamp here" square on the
envelopes they give you? I mean, fucking duh."
Shipley shared memories of "our song" -- which was Let My Love Open
the Door. "When I'd play it and I was with her, I'd sing my own
lyrics to her, which for obscure reasons went, 'Let my love merp merp merp
"I know that sounds silly, but if I can make her the tree, then she
doesn't have to be the table we never replaced and the couches our cats
destroyed and the opaque windowshades we finally bought and the light
switch she liked and the one she didn't because it was fluorescent and the
cup she kept toothbrushes in and the one for water and the room we painted
dark green and the furry pillow where the good cat sleeps and the ratty
carpets her mom gave us and the too-bright lamp she read by and the giant
bed we made love in."
"Just the tree."
"Actually, I guess I also stole a pair of panties from her before she
could pack them. That's probably a symbol too."