One hundred one.

  • I believe that 101 was the painting I first won the art show with, and 102 I didn't, though I liked it more. That is coming up again soon, the art show, so is the blood drive. I have been cycling lately, I suppose. I have been sick for the past two days, and that doesn't help. I have been getting this thick awful feeling, like my blood has been turned to lead, and I just want to lie in the grass, but I have no one to lie with. It is storming out today, and I should be working on my Chemistry II homework. All of my motivation flew out the crack in the window that I forgot to roll up, and now some bird is making it into a nest that its babies will fall from before they learn to use their wings. And I will walk over their smashed bodies on the sidewalk in front of my school, feeling vomit work its way up my throat and tears work their way to my eyes. Like usual, life and death have been on my mind a lot. An end, a definite atheist end, seems more correct to me than an afterlife. It hit me when I was thinking about history one day, and how I didn't exist then. There was nothing, no memory of that time, no existence, so it makes sense that there isn't one when I die. I don't know, it makes me sad to think about. Maybe Camden is correct and I have become a bit of nihilist. I am not really sure, it makes my head pound to read over it too much. Now, this boy is talk talk talking to me, and he wants to know if I find him attractive. I am trying hard to be coy and to dance on to a new subject, because this doesn't really matter. I don't understand people, or this music flowing to my ears. The Decemberists, they make nice music. Their music seems fitting for the rain and my shaking hands, my lack of motivation and my misunderstanding of acid-base equilibrium. 'You get more interesting each time we speak,' but really, my stomach has just gotten so weak, that I can't think of coherent thoughts. He's being sweet, and it makes me feel odd. I wish I could have a hug from a certain person whom I love so. 'It won't be long,' I tell myself, and pull my sweater close to me, trying to feel safe in my own skin. I have been writing too many poems. It has become a dirty habit. It has started to feel easy and nice, like sex you don't have to do much during. Quote of the Day: “Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass.” --John Steinbeck
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