I'm not coming back to this journal ( Read more... )

I remember when writing used to make things better.
I can't love myself until someone else does.
Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
I want to feel like I'm living for something other than books. and food.
I want my life to FEEL like a good book again. That's when I'm happy.
Ugh. I want. I want. I want.

I hate the chemical reactions in my body that make every getoutofbed, takeashower, gotoschool seem so unbearable that I would gladly go into a coma rather than face it ( Read more... )

I feel tired.
The world is tired.
I'll be another dark cloud until I see the sun shine again.

My childhood revolved around that willow tree.
snake hunting,
rock busting,
making lemonade, and poison ivy medicine,
the accidental deaths of so many butterflies,
that tree saw it all.

Maybe that tree will be my panacea.

It's the 48th day of 2007 and I can only remember a few of those days ( Read more... )

Dainty.

Why does my happiness depend almost entirely on money ( Read more... )

I once had a dog named Elvis.
I still do. For now.
I keep forgetting to feed him.
And I keep forgetting to read past page 6 six (Mrs. Spears would be dissapointed) in 1984 ( Read more... )

And its nearly midnight
And all i want with my life
Is to be a housewife
Is to be a housewife
'Cause it's nearly midnight
And all i want with my life
Is to die a housewife
Is to die a housewife