We have gym and art today. In gym we either have to play baseball or softball. Gross me to the max!!! But I love art!
14 September 1993
I feel so strange right now. So useless. So blah. I want to go do something wild, spontaneous, full of life. I at least want to go take a walk down the tracks or to one of my numerous hiding spots. I feel so caged in by my stressful, worrisome, difficult classes, my lack of friends, and the rigorous daily schedule which I hold myself to relentlessly: everything from when I make my morning coffee as compared to when I put in my contacts, to getting into bed at exactly 11:00 p.m. every night. I get enough sleep but I’m still tired; I don’t get enough food but I’m not hungry (I better be losing major weight here). I’m going to be a failure in all of my classes. I want to go home but I’m almost scared to. 3 ½ weeks to go. Time is racing by mercilessly. September bleeds away into the band aid of time, and if next semester goes by as quickly as this semester, I’ll be abroad before I know what hits me. I’ll be twenty, which is virtually the crest of old age oblivion. Youth and time are pouring through my fingers and I can do nothing to stop it—my hands are shaking too violently to cup and keep them. I keep listening to the same tapes over and over again. Missy had a violent breakdown at dinner on Sunday, and I want to badly to be able to do the same. Even my breakdowns are quiet, hidden, and reserved…like me. I want to scream and curse and throw things. I want to chop my arms into raw meat and thrust them into people’s faces, screaming, “Look at this! Look at ME!”, but they are already looking at me, so that would be nothing new. Everyone is staring at me.
4 March 2003
Anyway, I don’t actually believe in Lent, and not just because I’m a recovered Catholic. I think that if you’re going to give up something to test your willpower, fine, then do it…but don’t do it just because it’s Lent. Do it when nobody else is doing it. Give up sweets during Christmas—now that takes willpower. My feelings toward Lent are similar to my feelings toward Valentine’s Day—you don’t need a day on the calendar to tell you what you should or should not be doing. If you love someone, you show them that you love them every day, not just on V-day. You buy them gifts out of the blue on an ordinary August day. You treat them to a romantic dinner when they are least expecting it in August. You don’t wait until February 14th to be romantic and devoted. Same thing with Lent! Also, I have no desire to give up anything. Life is too short. If something becomes really bad for me, like my shitty diet, or my propensity for not moving from the sofa, then I will work on cutting back on the bad thing or altering my routine, but I won’t abolish anything completely. Nothing in my life is so bad that it merits complete surrender. I’m proud of the fact that I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t really drink, don’t have casual sex, don’t cheat the government or my creditors, don’t drink a lot of coffee, etc. For the most part, I lead a good life. So why should I engage in self-sacrifice? Haven’t I earned the right to say “screw it” to the whole idea of self-sacrifice? I always say that I’m giving up sex, meat, drugs, and exercise during Lent because I’m a celibate, drug-free vegetarian sloth. So basically, I’m giving up all the things that are already missing from my life!
20 October 1984
I am so mad at Ma. She made me go to this shopping center in the mountains last Sunday. (It turned out pretty neat.) She and d[ad] yelled at me last Saturday and this evening. She told her friend Sissy that I’m a immature ten-year-old. Nanny and Papa stopped report card money, and I’m broke. Kris threw Emily around. Now she’s gone too far. I hate them! Kelly got her preemie—Skipper. We went to the D.Q. Nanny and Papa came for supper on Thursday. I made Papa a pillow. Kris was home Thursday. I was home last Friday. Ma’s blaming me of having my shopping cart in the middle of my room. We got a math decimals cartridge for Terri. I’m mad at everyone. I could only talk to you. Will you please help me? Sometimes I feel as [if] I don’t belong here. I feel as though no one likes me. I’m very unhappy.
P.S. Fluffy got a haircut. She’s really cute. Pat says sometime Fluffy might go blind. I hope not.
24 January 1994
I feel so blah. I guess it’s just depression and wariness over the knowledge that I’ll be back to school in less than a week. I’ve hardly done anything over this break, and I can’t even spend my final days hiking, going to Middle Creek, driving through Gretna, or visiting the Swatty, because the roads are still so awful. I can’t believe how heinous this winter has been, especially since I was honestly anticipating a mild winter after last year’s kicker. I guess the joke’s on me. “I don’t know…if January will hold together the bones of need…” I don’t know if I’ll survive this winter, this black February that’s to come. It scares me; I feel so weak. God, I want to see Terry. I hope my pictures of him came out okay. I feel bored, alone, stir-crazy.
“There must be something terribly wrong with me…”
10 December 2004
I guess I’m feeling a little cranky today. It’s dark, gloomy, foggy, and drizzly outside. Normally I don’t mind gloomy days at all, because they remind me of England and because I just think, darker, sadder things are beautiful, but it’s the end of the week and I’m tired and worn out and today gives me yet another compelling reason to want to stay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, vegging. I’ll try not to complain, though, because I hate when people whine incessantly about bad weather and winter. I should consider this journal entry my manifesto in defense of bad weather and winter.
... And winter is a necessary thing, too. The earth needs an opportunity to rest and regain its strength for the lush bloom of spring and summer. Humans understand their own need to sleep, yet they fail to understand that the earth needs sleep, too. Besides, without the distracting, chaotic bustle of leaves and flowers, we get to see the earth stripped down to its barest, finest form, and that gives a glimpse of an otherwise overlooked source of beauty. It forces us to notice the overlooked. It heightens our senses in a different way. We notice silence and the way the sky grows luminescent at night when there is reflective snow on the ground. We notice the bones of trees. We notice how nature is suddenly calm.
Besides, don’t most of us raised in northern climes have fond childhood memories of winter? Snow was magical and mysterious. It transformed the landscape. It allowed us to do fun things like go sledding. Okay, so now snow also means backbreaking shoveling and crappy commutes, but the magic is still there! We just choose to ignore it. Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to go sledding or throw a snowball. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I can’t still see snow as being wondrous and beautiful.
And anybody can appreciate the overt, undeniable beauty of spring, summer, and fall, but it takes a truly special—and aware—person to appreciate the beauty of winter. It’s like the difference between the most classically pretty girl in school (for instance, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, slender cheerleader) and the unconventional beauty in the shadows…
21 October 1985
I was at the school again today. That seems to be the new hangout place. I hate Scott and Christian. They’re always criticizing me. Ew, it’s Boyer! (that’s all anybody calls me) or, Hey, Boyer! I dig your bike! Ha! I don’t need them. Last night I saw the Pound Puppies in a cartoon at Nanny’s. They are so cute. I want one so bad! I’ll call him Flannel.
12 August 1995
Missy, Gates, Charlie, and I went to Laura’s, sans Terry, but she wasn’t home, so we went to [lead singer of Live] Ed Kowalcyk’s neighbourhood and stole garbage from the house that we thought belonged to him. Once we rooted through it, we found that we were sadly off-base. It actually belonged to a sick, probably elderly couple named Hazel and Francis Card.
8 July 2005
How sad that it always takes something like this to make me and others appreciate how fucking delicate we are, how delicate the balance is between comfort and catastrophe. You know I’m not religious in the least, but I recognize that everything in the world is a miracle in its own way. The fact that the universe and human beings manage to exist at all—and not only exist but thrive—is miraculous in the purest sense of the word.
Earth floats in a sea of cosmic debris and chaos, and yet it stays alive. One extra degree of tilt on our axis and everything could end. We are perched on that ledge of annihilation and yet we don’t drop over the edge. We continue our languid twirl.
All those chattering cells, spinning in their proper orbits in the groundwater of blood, doing what they need to do to keep the human body working. All those neurons firing at proper intervals.
The growth of trees, the bloom of flowers, the way the sun and rain may bring ruin through drought and flood and yet, in the end, they manage to trade places and restore balance.
There is wonder everywhere, for those who bother to look. But the thing is…we don’t look. Or else we only look occasionally, and then turn away, bored. And amidst all the wonder, such waste…such dreadful, sickening waste. The things people are capable of doing to each other!
Mother Nature isn’t perfect; the Boxing Day tsunami proved that better than anything. So you’d think that in the face of that, humans could maybe work together and be good to each other so at least they’d have something beneficent and sustaining to carry them through Mother Nature’s psychotic episodes. And there IS goodness among mankind: I see it, I know of it. But there’s so much horror there, too. The gamut runs from genocide to pickpockets. So much barbarism in such flawed little creatures.
22 June 1986
I did go to church today. D. and I went to see Karate Kid II. It was very good. Then we went in the mall to a couple selling stamps. I started collecting them. We went stamp crazy. I relaxed the rest of today and Ma and Daddy dropped us at Nanny and Papa’s while they went to Hershey. Tonight something terrible happened. My temperature was 103 and I thought I was gonna die. Ma put me in a cold tub and then after being in the air conditioner it helped.
7 April 2006
Oh Christ, I hate losing my mind over a boy. It really sucks. I just wish I could figure out how to shut up my yammering, stupid heart!
January 22, 1983
Fluffy is sick today. Daddy said she threw up and pooped at the same time. She pooped on daddy’s flashlight. Last night I watched Alligator. It was decent.
October 24, 1984
I’m working on Terri. Or I’m supposed to be. Barbara is taking charge complaining and ohhh! I hate her. Just wait when she breaks Terri. I’ll kill her!
July 14, 1985
Today I took Barb to the pool. Oh God, I burst crying because she and I were going to ride to Valley Beach on our bikes. But no, my parents won’t let me ride anywhere but the “simple trusty streets of boring Lebanon.” See, she’s got a 10 speed and didn’t say stuff like “oh I have a bike and you don’t.” But stuff like “switching gears is hard” and stuff like talking about 10 speeds and saying “you know.” My parents said if she says “mean” stuff they’ll call her parents! They think that always helps but it just makes the kid more embarrassed than ever!!! I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I can express my feelings to only you. Can’t my dumb parents see I’m growing up?
June 4, 1986
My Birthday! Almost everyone sang to me at lunch! Today was okay. I got to help in cleaning out the room. We had an award ceremony and I got a certificate for being a good student and another one for reading. Amy still came over. We had Gumby cake, ice-cream, and pizza. We also saw the movie TOP GUN. It was boring!
June 4, 1987
This morning everybody was yelling and singing Happy Birthday to me. Then Bridget, Sevannah, and D. ran to the office so they could announce it. Embarrassing!! Mom gave me a little party. There was cake and I got a new purse as a present.
June 4, 1988
Finally, officially, I’m fourteen! Most of all, I survived! Yes, I managed to survive my long, grueling thirteenth year, and live! On Friday, Wendy had my name announced over the loud speaker. It was the only one read, and they said it quite loud—so everyone heard. In first period English, everyone said “Happy birthday” to me and then, they all sang! I heard more “happy birthdays” throughout the day. In home ec, our free lab was really fun. (In our group, at least.) Everyone agreed that it was a sort of party for me. The food we made was disgusting, though.
15 November 1989
Sometimes I wonder if indeed the world would be better off without me. Everybody is staring. You come to school in a pensive mood, and they all look at you like an exhibit, that maybe you’re not real. Suddenly they care, because you might do something that they will feel guilty for. Please leave me alone. I can’t tell you! I can’t tell you. I think I’m hyping myself up for nothing. Anyway, it’s just empty gestures, empty concern.
I almost want to laugh. I’m sane! Really, I am! It gets me angry that people take peace of mind and serenity for granted. Sometimes I feel I’ve gone mad. Every person’s laugh is about me, every whisper is mocking my existence. Those around me, endure me. Perhaps they would never even hear my screams. If I’m invisible, a phantom, then that’s how I shall act…
5 July 1990
…they all think I’m crazy but I’m not. I hate them all so much; how they enjoy turning around and stabbing me in the back. They probably all hate me and want me to die and I don’t care. There’s no one to trust anymore. Today I was especially angry. So upset that while walking I was ready to come home and just scream “FUCK” or put a knife through my wrist.
31 January 1991
I’m sick of everything; I hate school, I hate musical, I hate everybody, I hate geometry, I hate Mr. Stuckey for making me feel stupid. Some days I know I’ll die when I wake up, and sometimes I can handle it. I worry so much about everything. When I walk through the halls I have panic attacks and become so paranoid that everybody’s talking about me. Nobody can like me
And this is the philosophical finding: these moods I get…they catapult me into unreality. They hit just like that. I go under the waves; I can’t talk or love, or laugh, and it’s like worms eating my soul. It’s the Bell Jar. That’s what it is. It descends on me, with its “stifling distortions,” and when it’s down I’m numb and cold and can’t breathe. This is how Sylvia Plath described it—”To the person inside the Bell Jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.” But mine isn’t really the Bell Jar…it’s the Shadowman. And in those moods he stalks me. Oh boy. And I thought monsters only existed in childhood’s world. The wall between there, and here, was opened…something came through.
10 May 1992
I don’t know. It’s all so fucking messed. I wish I wasn’t so afraid of everything. This has got to stop, as it’s getting to the point where I’m terrified to do anything, much less prepare for the “Great College Experience” in August. Sometimes I’m even too scared to just call my friends. I wonder what the hell’s wrong with me…what mental disorder, what psychoses, what ghosts haunt my brain. I’m caging myself in, and I’m unable to stop. Oh God … there’s so much wrong with me! I live in a delusion-packed world, I’m a totally different person with my friends than I am with me (they think I’m a silly, clueless space cadet), I’m absolutely terrified to do things like work or go out with guys (thus, to my mother, I am disgustingly “lazy” and abnormal), and I’ve begun talking to myself (out loud, no less) all the time. That all sounds so stupid, insane, and exaggerated, but it’s not. It’s the truth. And it’s killing me.
31 January 1993
…it only reminds me about how unhappy I am. It’s as if I can’t escape from this pain, no matter how hard I try. This great debate whirls in my head: should I or should I not commit suicide? At times like these it is so damn tempting. There’s nothing to look forward to, no hope to grasp. But the idea of suicide…of me actually going through with it…scares me beyond comprehension. I don’t even know if I could go through with it. I doubt I could. Then again, it would be ten times easier to kill myself than to continue existing as I am. I don’t fit in anywhere, no matter how hard I try. …what should I do? How am I going to survive? Who or what is going to pull me through this? If I wouldn’t kill myself, I could just give a half-hearted attempt, so I would be pulled from here and stuck in some mental hospital, where I could avoid life for a while. I don’t want to fuck up my chances of going to England, though. I’m so scared. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I commit suicide, and then destroy future chances for happiness which just aren’t evident right now?
I’m about to start crying…
14 March 1994
I’ve been suicidal since I was like fourteen years old, and I’ve never had such a chilling terror of it, like I did in my dream. Maybe because it’s so potentially close now…when it comes down to the wire, I lose my dark bravery and run like hell, my bowels releasing the whole way there. Maybe it’s because I’m in good sorts right now, despite and impossible psychology test on Wednesday. I’m in good sorts because I’m excited to see Heather again, to go home on break, to hang out with the whole gang two weekends from now. Plus, I got a B+ on my astronomy test. I know that beyond all this false light, the shadows hang; however, I’m not really thinking about all that now. I’m thinking of this sweet light, this sudden ability to breathe…it feels so good. The thought that I might have to kill myself in a few weeks makes me feel almost sick. But I have to do it, you know, if I can’t go abroad. I couldn’t even stay here if I wanted to, because I won’t have a place to live, and I won’t be registered in any classes. I thought about saving up my money this summer and then running away, but I know that wouldn’t work. I probably couldn’t even legally get a job in London. So, once again I come back to “an attempt,” only I wouldn’t know how to go about doing that. Slit my wrists in the tub? Take a load of sleeping pills? How would I direct my family’s attention to me in enough time to save me? They’d probably hate me, anyway, because pills and wrist-slashing are so lame, so cowardly. I have to do it. But I’m so afraid. Oh god, I am so very afraid.
23 February 1995
There’s a part of me unaccessed by any of them. A part I haven’t fully acknowledged to my diaries or to myself. I think that something strange and beautiful and frightening is breathing in that little square of hidden black. I’m feeling for its pulse and when I find it, I’ll open its vein and let it bleed out, but only on myself. I still have to keep something hidden from my friends, in order to protect myself.
22 August 1996
I really hate myself for not writing more, for holding back when I can’t afford to do so. Maybe I gave this analogy already, I don’t know, but I picture myself in a coffin-like box whose sides are throbbing black walls of agony. I lie as still as possible, rigidly constricting my arms and legs to my body so that they don’t accidentally brush against the walls and send pain ricocheting through my body. It’s hard to describe how I am now…I am just walking carefully, rigidly through my days, not thinking. I cannot think of anything at all. I daydream about England and my future a lot, but I don’t think about Terry, or this past terrible year, or analyze myself too much. I keep my mind strangely blank and constricted, focusing only on the future. Otherwise, I’m afraid, I’ll just snap.
Fall 1987
I know I didn’t write in a while but I’ve been busy. Oh, diary I feel so terrible. Nobody likes me anymore. Wendy called and kept begging me to come over. Mom finally agreed angrily after giving me another one of her lectures. About how I have only 1 friend and how I’m so sloppy and have no social life. I’m a loser, that’s what she’s trying to say. I have a good group of friends at school but what I need is people to hang out with me. Friends. Just good friends. My life is such a mess right now. No friends, no family, no boyfriend, no life, nothing. I don’t even like my poetry anymore. My life is over. Worst of all, I just can’t stop loving M.G. I’m building my life into a fantasy and I can’t take it any more. I need help.
14 September 1995
I wish I could tear the darkness out of me … stuff [it] in a box and bury [it] in the mountains, in those cold blue mountains that have held me captive for so long.
15 May 2001
But at the back of my mind was this nagging voice saying, “You were miserable because of him and now you’re happy because things are okay with him, happy because he graced you with a 5-minute conversation … happy because of some stupid little trip to the beach. Why can’t you be happy for better reasons? Why can’t you be happy for genuine reasons?” I feel partially disgusted with myself. Disgusted that I can’t be happy and unhappy on my own terms, rather than because of a single guy, or because of friends, family members, or coworkers who let me down. I’m almost 27…when will I get over my propensity for being so affected by the people around me? I’m not going to say that I feel like I am the puppet and they are the ones pulling the strings, because that connotes a deliberate maliciousness on their end—a willingness and desire to control me. I really believe that nobody understands how much effect they have on me, how much they can whack me in the kneecaps with what they say and do or don’t say and don’t do. The problem lies with me. I am too damn sensitive.
And the bottom line, of course, is that am just sick of mood swings…up and down, up and down. As if, after 14+ years of unipolarity, I am suddenly blossoming into bipolarhood. … And I am also tired of the weight of depression. I hate being reminded that I haven’t yet learned how to kill it. I sedate it every night [with antidepressants] and trick myself into believing that it is as good as dead. Then something happens to remind me, “Hey, it’s not dead. It’s still inside of you. It can’t sleep forever. It’s going to come back.”
It’s going to come back.
How the hell do you run away from something that is padlocked inside of you? Can I reach inside my chest and yank it out, this malignant, throbbing, slippery, deformed mass, and toss it into a fireplace somewhere?
For the most part, no, I don’t feel overtly depressed. But I feel like it is leaching into my bedrock like contaminated groundwater. It is becoming more difficult for me to focus on little things. I am procrastinating more and more. Everything—no matter how mundane, like bill-paying, grocery shopping, and putting away dishes—becomes a hill to climb. I don’t want to talk to anybody when they phone, although I do. I don’t want to be social. It is summed up best by Caroline Kettlewell:
I was disentangling myself piece by piece, severing my obligations. I wanted less and less to be asked of me. You sometimes hear stories of people who fall into icy lakes and survive drowning because their metabolisms slow to the barest possible level of functioning. That’s what I did with my life, a kind of icing down to the survivable minimum.
Am I slowing to a crawl? Am I icing down to the barest possible level of functioning? I am young and healthy, and yet I live each day just to come home at night, veg, and then go to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, one of my first thoughts is, “How long until I can go to sleep again?” It reminds me of college, when I would frequently take sleeping pills early in the evening. Not because I was addicted, not because I was sleep-disordered. It was just that no amount of sleep was enough. I didn’t want to sleep the 8-10 hours my body would grant me each night. I wanted to sleep 24 hours a day, because that was the only thing that gave me a temporary respite from my depression. If I couldn’t die, the next best thing was to sleep, sleep, sleep, and pray for something to put me in a coma. At a minimum, I wanted to drop out of life at 6pm and not have to worry about it until 8am. I wanted to disappear as frequently as I could. Is that what I am returning to now? An all-encompassing, organic desire to just disappear? To cut back on my daily activities until there is nothing left but a catatonic state of complete inactivity that renders me essentially invisible?
January 28, 1986
Today, the space shuttle Challenger blew up! It’s a tragedy because there were 6 astronauts and that schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe. I’m sad. They all died and we were all surprised and shocked.
May 2, 1984
My braces got tightened. We got SUPER BREAKOUT!
28 December 2004
On Sunday, en route home, I stopped at Heather’s house for a little while. Elizabeth and Whitney were playing Breakout on the Playstation, and I made no move to play because I knew I would suck if I tried to use anything other than an Atari paddle. Elizabeth kicked Whitney and Heather’s asses, and I was thinking, “No way will I allow my ass to get kicked at Breakout by someone born in 1995.” After, all I am the former Super Breakout Queen of the mid-’80s. So yesterday I dusted off my Atari set and played Super Breakout for the first time in like two years. The first score I got was decent, but I knew I could do better. Sure enough, within a few rounds I was a killing machine, topping out at 1200 points (the highest I saw Elizabeth get was 250 points) on four levels. That’s right, the Breakout bitch is back in town! After I blew on my smoking paddles, I sat back smugly and said, “Beat that, Elizabeth.” I’ll gladly take Elizabeth on, but only if we play with my Atari set. No way will I attempt that game with the ridiculous Playstation controller. It’s Atari paddles or bust, baby!
6 April 2000
What I was thinking about on my way to work this morning: loneliness, and how I am lonely at such a core depth, I don’t even feel it. I discussed vague details of this with Annida recently, and may’ve written about it in my journal, too. I compare it to that experience of being so hungry, you don’t even feel hungry anymore, or being so exhausted, you don’t even feel tired anymore. I feel like maybe there’s this membrane-stratosphere of things like hunger, tiredness, loneliness, hatred, etc., that surrounds us, and when you get temporarily tangled up in it, that’s when you feel those pangs clearly. But sometimes you push past the stratosphere, and you’re in this clean, bare room that is pure hunger, pure tiredness, pure loneliness, etc., and in that room you are consumed by the tiredness, loneliness, whatever—it invades your cells, you breathe it, you sweat it…and yet you don’t feel it because you are past that stratosphere of feeling. That’s how I feel about loneliness. I don’t feel lonely. I like being alone—always have—and get antsy when I go too long without getting some alone-time. But I think that at my core, I am pure loneliness. It’s a deep, engulfing loneliness…one that surpasses feelings like, “Oh, I feel lonely because I haven’t spoken to or seen anyone all weekend long” or “I haven’t done anything socially in a month.” It is beyond that. It is, “I want to spend my life with someone. I want to wake up in the middle of the night and roll over and feel his warm skin breathing next to me. I want to have someone who is first in my mind to call when something great happens. I want someone who will just as willingly accompany me to the Kennedy Center to see an opera as to Blockbuster to rent a cheesy horror flick. I want somebody who will dine with me at both Burger King and some ultra-fancy restaurant, where we will giggle at the rich people.” I don’t have that, and so I ache for it, and the aching is loneliness at a core, cellular level. The loneliness is a second skin around me, and it is so all-encompassing, I can’t feel it. So I don’t feel lonely, even though that’s all I am. I don’t know if this makes sense or not.
March 1992
If I was to die tonight I could handle it, for I am perfectly happy. I lay on the browned needle-grass on the smooth roll of a large hill in the midst of this Lancaster park. There’s something brilliant and pure about being able to fromp barefoot through the cold mud, twisting madly on the hillside, laughing and dancing and being free. Michelle is blowing massive color-fringed bubbles into the perfect spring-like day. They hover against the graying sky like perfect dreams, then pop. Why must they always pop?
Jessica is sketching, Jen is strumming the guitar, Shakti is reading and playing with Terry’s yin-yang balls, Laura and Jen and Terry went to sail a message on the pond, Greg and the crew are flinging a Frisbee into the carefree abandon of the wind.
I am laying on my stomach feeling my elbows grow wet. All around us, on this hill, are the wiry brown veins of mid-winter trees, throwing their proud breasts against this torrent of spring.
“Alas, I suppose I am turning into a God,” it was said. I could turn into a god of stone right here, if I allowed myself. I hate the thought of returning to the hated, filthy snatches of life tomorrow. No time, no time. School, musical, quiz bowl, meetings, obligations, and more and more and more…I just want to be me. Me. I want to forget about everything for a while.
song heard most recently before posting:
Nowhere Fast—The Smiths
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