1:19 p.m. Dear diary, hello, remember me? I have nothing at all to tell you. I'm covered all over with Band-Aids (tm) and Neosporin, since I tried recently to discover my bliss by cutting myself to pieces. No bliss there. School's over. I fucked up horribly. So I'm spending the summer in an agony of self-pity and movies, cataloguing the days in piles of laundry left around the floor.

Just had lunch with Colleen. She's dating a variety of boys. She tells me that she cares about me, but she sounds like she's practising what she'd been taught in psych class. She wants me to see a therapist.

Oh god. I just want to cry all the time. But if I ever start crying, whenever will I stop?

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

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Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.

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