Watch the way you backstroke across the water, arms out.
I'm very sick, and in absence of my real journal. I really wish I could find time to write, I'm really tired, and my eyes are awfully heavy. I feel like being frivilous, like Daisy, like planning Laura's party, and smoking ciggerates in the cold laughing with my girlfriends. Or trying on ridicilously expensive jeans. I'm reading White Oleander. Part of me wants to live a life like Ingrid. But more I'm so much like Astrid, easily influenced by the world around her but with this insight she knows she has. Her gift. In the ways of love...my life is very fickle.