Her strong personality often scrutinizes and picks apart the more inane sections of the human condition, commenting on its frail and idiotic fibre in a 90's fashion by using idiotic classmates, the infamous asshole/decent guy Jake and her overzealous father. While the perspective itself can be comedic in that sarcastic, annoyed to angry way, it gets very repetitive: we walk past a gallery of different subjects, only to hear our tour guide use the same narrative voice, regardless of her mood or the piece before us. For younger people who can't stand hypocrisy or stupidity, I imagine her image might be a sonorous call to war that rallies tribes of disenchantment into focused bitterness, a 100 foot neon "Fuck you" sign scrawling a new book of 'Genesis' in blood with Paul Simon on baptized bathroom stalls for the Ones Too Quiet, the sounds of silence rocking the cultural casba.

And in that unique but generalized electric infrastructure, Plaidpapunk goes farther than some eDiarists. She illustrates how she feels with precision and depth. Her grammar is uncluttered, her wording exact. There's a sense of always knowing where she's coming from and how she relates to something. As such, her personal disclosures don't miss the mark and are informative. Yet, I'm not sure what the hell that mark is. There's wattage, but directed at what? For what? In my eyes, there's a bizarrely hollow quality to her details, or how she chooses to write about something. It's as if there's no real magic to it all, yet you could swear there has to be: the writing itself is clear, concise and composed well, I give you that, but it almost never feels innately beautiful, it never innately evokes some powerful burst of inspiration in the reader. It's honest, direct and descriptive, I give you that, but again there's this feeling that something is missing. Certain rare entries have a spark that captivates, but in the more recent months I can't find that light; I can't see the 'why,' only hear the 'hows'.

At the risk of sounding insulting, this diary reads like Perceptions or many other famous diaries on diaryland or diary-x: the surface is a tapestry of interesting events and observations... but there isn't invention, just really effective formulae. She herself isn't formulaic, but her prose frustrates me: she forces me to think and empathize, yet pushes me away simultaneously, like a friend with an interesting mind who refuses to tell you what you really did wrong, but lets you know exactly how wrong you were. Unless you're smitten with her message and personality, you keep wondering, you keep plaintively asking... and eventually you give up.

Her form of expression is an M.C. Esher painting, flipping back and forth against the eye between literal business potatoes in bad hats and tweed suits ascending to the sky and angry winged artists flung into obscure pits of inspiration and venom. One is always waiting, always expecting, constantly second-guessing what you've just read. I like that quality because she keeps you on your toes, but there's rarely any feeling of comfort or ease; quite the exact opposite. That tense, taut thread vibrates in her background and words, pitch-perfect ominous in evoking the usual feelings of her life: stress, frustration, anger and passionate thoughtfulness. But then it's just a series of strings plucked; no bow or resin for her violin. The diary usually didn't pull me in, but the potential for it constantly perched on my shoulder, this animated skeleton of a toucan rattling hypnotic tintinabulations between its empty ribs.

Her diary haunts me, that neon sculpture, reminding me I need more bulk mocha frappuccinos and Pringles, some excited punks and trechcoat skullduggers pushing past to read and rejoice in this harsh fiery light that I can't bathe in. Maybe if I was younger, maybe if I was more angry, but 'neath the halo of streetlamps that split the night, I just want comfort foods and a warm bath.

I want music, not staccato.