I went up, and I went down, and I got bad, and then I got mean. I got mean.. Then today, as I sat in Enriched English III thinking about the past few days, I thought about him and how he has been different and how I have been so caught up I never took the time to ask. I didn't have to though, he told. I decided I needed to write this because I have the ACT tomorrow and I need to let this out. Hopefully this washes some of the pain away, like the peroxide I used to fear which cleansed the dirt from my skinned palms or knee. Even if I cried afterward. Maybe we moved too fast, he's thinking, and I am afraid. I am afraid I've lost what I've longed for, for so very long, and we never even got to really enjoy it. But then I have to remind myself of earlier. As I walked up Lia's magnificent stairwell I thought to myself about marriage and names, and I wondered to myself if we were moving too quickly, as I had before. I tried to not worry much about it. I have thought on it before, and I mostly decide that we have said what we said, and it felt nice at the time, and if we need to slow we can. Tomorrow isn't forever and years are still the same amount. Part of me feels almost angry at him. He brought all of this up, I used to be bitter and scoffing at the idea. Then he made my heart melt the morning of my birthday, and I felt so sweet and kind toward it. Now he feels we moved too fast, got too serious, it may be ridiculous, but fuck...you brought it on! But mostly, I am not angry. I am just waiting, and maybe tearing up a little, but that's not so out of the ordinary for me lately. I am going to be patient, and try to be confident that it's going to be okay, and we will live to see another day as one another's. If we don't, well...let's not think on that just yet. Fortune telling is a bad habit, so lock up your palms and crystal balls. If you are reading this, which you probably aren't, I just want you to know that I do love you, truly, and that I never lied when I said I could be content waking to your voice every morning for my life span, I hope you didn't either. I don't think you did, I trust you didn't. Maybe our eyes just got too droopy and our hearts too full with love. Anyway, I want to make it clear that I am working on me, and that I have only been diagnosed a month, it is hard for me, and I hope you realize I am struggling, but trying. I'm going to keep trying, and not give up, I'm going to work as hard as I can to make this happen. I think you want this just as much as I do, I hope you still do. I love you more than anything I have ever known, you are my very best friend, I hope I am still yours. I have realized some things these past couple of days, and I hope I still have time to use them for a positive purpose. I will always love you, even if we cannot be together, and I will always be here for you, if you need me to be. Quote of the Day: ~"Treat people as if they were what they ought to be and you help them to become what they are capable of being." ~ --Goethe

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