Some days I still feel like giving up, hanging up my coat, and calling it quits. Some days I don't have the courage to get out of bed, so I sleep a few more hours until someone else wakes me. Some days I ache with such a longing pain that I throw up. I keep telling myself that I'll start writing and practicing piano again, but everyday I don't. The other night I thought about calling, because I really scared myself. Then I thought about how most people seem to tell you that there's too much beauty to let go. However, at this moment I thought about beautiful things and they held no true meaning. Nothing seems to really have much meaning to me. Mostly because I think about how I'm going to die and these things won't have mattered anyway. Sometimes I think about how I have a pretty interesting life story, so far anyway, and that maybe someday I could write about it, like Bukowski did. Then I realize that Bukowski is dead, and that his story only lives in the hearts of the breathing. At then end of the day, he is still dead. On my Singulair bottle it said, 'if sadness, depression, or fear occur, contact your doctor.' I told my mother about it, she said she'd set up and appointment. I'm half afraid that may be all that is wrong with me; this square pill I've been taking for the past 4 years. The other half is afraid that that isn't what's wrong with me. I'm afraid I'm not ever going to be happy for more than a few hours again. Then again, I'm afraid I will be. Memories seem to really stab me lately. I'm afraid I'm only making memories and that I will end up the way I wanted to a few months ago. I won't for now though, I have some promises to keep. Quote of the Day: ~"It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness." --Leo Tolstoy

Mostly I just like to sit up talk to someone, listen to some indie, and try to write a little. Lately, Dar stays up with me, and watches porn in the room in front of me. Every time a song changes, I hear a little moan, or some shitty acting. Maybe he's trying to tell me something. I really don't give a fuck. I like to have sex, a lot, but I'm not going to take his stupid little signs. Frankly, I liked it better when he just went to sleep. I hate listening to porn. Watching it is okay, sometimes, but listening to it just makes it sound so much more stupid than what it already is. Sometimes it feels like my mind's in a haze and though I try I can never convey the right thing. Close, but no cigar, I guess I won't be getting that prize after all. Quote of the Day: ~“It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.”~ --Mark Twain

Some things that I love: The colors blue, green, and grey. Poetry and the writings of sad, drunk old men. The way a smile is universal, and that laughter is the same in every language. How when a person looks when they are running after another, but not sprinting. I love strange jewelry and clothing, on not so strange looking people, my cat's pink nose and peculiar grin, the way our greeting is to sniff one another's face,the smell of old books, fresh coffee, glass work, films- especially indie and french, blankets and piles of them, feeling secure and snug in them, the way I sometimes laugh with someone so much they laugh because I am and it continues from there, the way my best friend's voice tightens and relaxes, deepens and heightens when talks to me, forearms and the shape of people, language, conversations, pointless prittle pattle, the delightful rings and tears of nature, walking across and crunching both snow and fallen autumn leaves, voices and singing, letters, stamps, and news, people watching, black hair, clavicles, men's ties tucked into sweaters with a collared shirt, Suss's silliness, music that makes me feel relaxed, passionate thinking, science, and finally Camden. Quote of the Day: ~"“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”~ --Lao Tzu

I suppose I've been writing quite a lot lately. Tonight, four poems, and this journal entry. I've only been on the computer for about thirty minutes. Words pour from my finger tips in an unconscious manner. Poetry isn't really my strong suite, but it gets me by. I've been writing them short, I like them that way. Short and sweet, right? What if we don't get to follow one another into the dark? The promise I have with Trev might be a false one. In the Christmas aisle at Big Lots Han points to a tub of candies, 'My aunt always bought those when she was alive,' she says in an off tone voice. I turn my face to the side, tears form but I choke them back and do my best to smile softly at her. I hope my smiles aren't as sad as they feel. Quote of the Day ~“Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add but when there is no longer anything to take away, when a body has been stripped down to its nakedness”~ -- Antoine de Saint-Exupery quotes The Auschwitz sign was stolen on Friday, isn't that sad? Perhaps all we'll ever be are the memories we leave behind, and when our children and our children's children die, we will be gone forever. I wish I had the ability to simply not think about depressing things. Maybe that's a choice too, and like usual I'm just not trying hard enough. I applied at McDonald's this morning. Not exactly my dream job, but I need something to occupy me. Something I can do my best to throw myself into. I'd much rather be stressed out from too many things than from my own thoughts. If I just busy myself enough all of this will go away.

I don't want to be the ever so sweet hurting your teeth. I want to keep baking cakes for you, but I don't at the same time. This journal isn't enough anymore it seems, but who can I trust? Everyone wants to be that person, but only out of self gain or satisfaction. I'm the worst creature to ever crawl this earth. I am low and cowardly. I blame and I cry, and I throw up when I eat because I'm only hungry until I smell food. I hate my appetite, not even my body wants me to live. How can you love me? How can you think all of this about me? I'm not this sweet intelligent person. I'm a fake, I'm a liar, I'm a whore, I'm the worst of the worst. What is there to love? I'm not funny, I'm not outgoing, I'm not pretty, or lovely, or interesting. I'm mediocre in all I do. I'm best at nothing. I'll always be second place, in school, in line, in life. Don't you see what I see? I'm bitter and quiet, controlled and unhappy, I'm messed up, you know? I'm so fucking messed up. And I used those ear things, and I'm still spinning. I'm a spinning mess, don't you see? Why won't you see! All I want to do is cry, and when you leave and go out, I will. I'll do just that, that's one thing I am good at. I started thinking about suicide again. That scares me. Maybe I'm not better, maybe I never will be. I'm scared and upset. I just want to be with you. I want to feel safe, like when I was little. Maybe you were wrong, maybe, maybe I am broken. I feel the constant need for self punishment, but I can't figure out the best way to do it. I used to burn myself, but that's not enough. I wish I could just be happy (it's a choice....) Why am I so unhappy? Quote of the Day: ~“A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?”~ --Oscar Wilde

She's driving and thinking about the one she loves in the city, and the man she's with in the country. Her leather gloves on, grasping loosely around the steering wheel, tremble a tiny amount. She's flustered and excited, she's decided, and now she's going through with it. The few seconds of the scene taking place in the car tell the viewer she's going to do it. Their hearts race alongside hers. It doesn't matter if the man at home is a drunk, a jerk, a guy her parents wanted her to marry, a sweet lover, a good man, or just not as good as the other. None of this matters to them for they love the one in the city, the camera is on him most of the time anyway. She walks into the door and doesn't undo her scarf, snowflakes flurry in with her, she looks him in the eye as he shoots her an inquisitive look. She tells him it's over, she's sorry, she loves him but she loves the man in the city more. She leaves before he can say anything. The camera looks down on the shut door and the few snowflakes still coming in. The next scene she's in his arms, and she is as happy as can be. They are meant to be. The camera and the story never show the man though. His heart break, his surprise, his ache, his feelings...he doesn't matter to us, maybe he wasn't as handsome. Quote of the Day ~"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show."~ --Andrew Wyeth Do you like to hurt? I do, I do.