Yah. Fucking boo.
Maybe,
just maybe,
"okay" doesn't really exist.
Why do all men think saying "I'm sorry" for the billionth time makes it better?
I don't cry like I used to. It just roars like a dull thud inside... and I sing. "Sous le dôme épais", some other aria, or Janis Ian.
I just imagine the pain floating out of me.
Maybe it will someday. Someday. Lovely.
Yes, I'm fucked up. I think I'll always be fucked up. It's all I've known. Always bordering on the edge of genius and insanity. Always having every day be interesting, for good or worse. Falling in love at the drop of the leaf, mourning constantly the ripping of human fabric over my soul.
Death, sex, poetry, life, love, tears, art, laughter, loss. Rinse and repeat, and repeat, and repeat...
and repeat.
Still trying to convince myself that I'm not fat and ugly.
Still trying to get over all those people I lost.
And it's not just Christof, or Marisa. It'll be Stephen, and Earl, and Amy, and Rose, and Jennifer, and Jimmy, and Jerry, and David, and Him.
You'll never know about Him. I'll never know about Him.
I wish I could just scream instead of cry,
but I don't know how to be that intrusive.
More emo-babble. Yeah. Just ignore this please. There's not much you can do about it anyway, except pat me on the head and feel sorry for me for a few seconds until something else distracts you.
Perhaps death is only a very large distraction?
I have some new crushs on a few girls, as I usually do. New faghags.
Fun.
I'm tired of even trying to look for guys anymore. They're all stupid, and if they aren't stupid, they're assholes, and if they're not stupid, and *shock*, not assholes, they don't wanna be with me anyway.
Not that I'm depressed or anything.
Never.
I need to find out about antidepressants. Another distraction to distract me from the distractions that distract me.
*giggle*
I love me.
I tell you to call me, but you never do anyway.
And yah, I lost all of my photography homework. Three weeks worth. Loooovely.
Bah. Humbug. Fuck. Meh. And other miscellania terms of non-commitance.
just maybe,
"okay" doesn't really exist.
Why do all men think saying "I'm sorry" for the billionth time makes it better?
I don't cry like I used to. It just roars like a dull thud inside... and I sing. "Sous le dôme épais", some other aria, or Janis Ian.
I just imagine the pain floating out of me.
Maybe it will someday. Someday. Lovely.
Yes, I'm fucked up. I think I'll always be fucked up. It's all I've known. Always bordering on the edge of genius and insanity. Always having every day be interesting, for good or worse. Falling in love at the drop of the leaf, mourning constantly the ripping of human fabric over my soul.
Death, sex, poetry, life, love, tears, art, laughter, loss. Rinse and repeat, and repeat, and repeat...
and repeat.
Still trying to convince myself that I'm not fat and ugly.
Still trying to get over all those people I lost.
And it's not just Christof, or Marisa. It'll be Stephen, and Earl, and Amy, and Rose, and Jennifer, and Jimmy, and Jerry, and David, and Him.
You'll never know about Him. I'll never know about Him.
I wish I could just scream instead of cry,
but I don't know how to be that intrusive.
More emo-babble. Yeah. Just ignore this please. There's not much you can do about it anyway, except pat me on the head and feel sorry for me for a few seconds until something else distracts you.
Perhaps death is only a very large distraction?
I have some new crushs on a few girls, as I usually do. New faghags.
Fun.
I'm tired of even trying to look for guys anymore. They're all stupid, and if they aren't stupid, they're assholes, and if they're not stupid, and *shock*, not assholes, they don't wanna be with me anyway.
Not that I'm depressed or anything.
Never.
I need to find out about antidepressants. Another distraction to distract me from the distractions that distract me.
*giggle*
I love me.
I tell you to call me, but you never do anyway.
And yah, I lost all of my photography homework. Three weeks worth. Loooovely.
Bah. Humbug. Fuck. Meh. And other miscellania terms of non-commitance.