I told myself I wasn't coming back here. "No more writing," I said. That boy who liked to hug me and rest his head on my shoulder, like he really needed me, stopped needing me. He needed sluts and booze more. That's okay. That basketball player who wanted to love me, stopped wanting to love me. He wanted to save me. He was no hero. That's okay. That boy in Ohio. He loves me. I love him. He liked her. That's okay. We're still together. That's okay, too. I like to send him things. We are long distance. I love post, receiving or going. I like to see things and think if he would like it if I sent it, and figure out postage in my head. I don't mind the costs, at least I get to smell the post office. This already feels better. Why did I leave? I am just so empty. Empty, anxious, and sad. Again. Why? I still take my meds. Maybe I need more. I am scared to ask for more. I no longer see my psychiatrist, crazy, late, old woman. I just go to my general physician for pills. I feel like a tin can on a string. Everyone keeps talking to me on the other side, but they sound so distant, like whispers. I feel like a whisper too. In the morning I have to go to church. I hate church. I don't believe in God. Fuck off. But I need a home. Quote of the Day: ~“You must not blame me if I do talk to the clouds.”~ -Henry David Thoreau