I hate it when something's bugging me, and I explain it to someone, usually someone whose dear to me, and they stare at me, bird-brained. Quick to blankly dismiss it away. "I don't know what to tell you, Mear." Then don't tell me anything.

This week, workworkwork. Monday-Friday, 2pm-9:30pm, the public array of madness. I exploit children in China and sell their trinkets for $1 to weirdo's. I sleep easy at night ( Read more... )

It scares me when I can't rememeber a lover's face. I like to play with faces - it's my recreation during pillowtalk - Pytheas, follow the Rhine. I swear to myself to remember every line, every groove, even better than my own. But there comes an almost-2am on an occasional night where I can't even picture them.

I should be doing homework. Like, I should have started it the moment I walked in the door. But here I am - you know I'm desperate when I'm wasting time writing an LJ entry; I barely use this thing anymore. I think I'll start a new one when I go away to Trent. Fresh start, fresh outlet ( Read more... )

I'm an egocentric girl. When desires are dangled in front of my face that I can't have, not only do I get pissed, I get even.

So one of my managers just called and I asked if I could come into work. And I said yes. I'm just horribly nice like that. So I've got work from 5:30pm-9:30pm.

I'm eyeing the PSE4U project that's on my bed and I'm wondering if agreeing to go into work was maybe a bad idea. Hm.

Ah well. I've pulled miracles out of my ass before.

Humans in my life have the tendency of becoming phantoms. Something apparently seen, heard, or sensed, but having no physical reality. An image that appears only in the mind; an illusion. Even the man on the Food Network who is basting portabella mushrooms in olive oil is making me cry.

I feel haunted.

You Oughta Know is, and always will be, the breakup song that hits home the most.

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