oh, god if erin doesn't turn that shit down i think i'm going to be sick.

i just spent my afternoon in the computer lab doing absolutely nothing related to school. there's a shock. i've found that i'm Never going to be the person i was. i feel wasted. but how do i become who/what i want to be? i don't know. it doesn't ever make sense to me how i can be so Stagnant. how can someone be proud of this? no, don't tell me that, i don't want anything to do with that. go AWAY, don't you see? i don't want this anyway! "& i hate punctuation."

<becomes violently sick due to erin>

it's grey. i was telling neil, neil who doesn't really speak with me anymore & who i don't really talk to either but i feel this incredibly real, unbreakable connection to, the other day that the grey sticks to this place. "oh," i imagine him saying, but probably spelling wrong in the way only neil can. i miss that neil.

shut up shut up shut up. i think sometimes that it would be fitting to begin cutting again, just so i can be this pit of anguish like miss mellow d & therefore could building a refreshingly morose personality from it, in which people would say, "well, miss blue mellow d, you're so depressing that i feel much better about myself & i believe i'll go read some adrienne rich now." guh. <pukes>

run winipcfg, renew, dhcp server unavailable: renewing adapter ''''. oh, fuck off, would you?

i want to sit at home & just WRITE for days like i wrote before. i want ms. carnes to get into my face & say, "goddamn it, girl, you can write so much better than this.. don't hand me this crap & say you're done." i'm NOT done. i'm never done. it's not done until i say it is. you can't see that because you can't see me.

i want scootie to sit in my car as i curse & threaten the life of everyone on old keene mill by beating on my steering wheel. i want to stand in front of jon & listen to him play music that sounds like a toliet paper commercial.

i want an emotion.

i want an emotion. this makes sense to me. does it to you? i don't know. sometimes when i'm writing the fucking things i call pathetic journals, i say "tell me. email me. reciprocate." who the fuck am i talking to? is this a time where i find out what i really want? is it at this school? i need to be somewhere creative & just don't feel it here. not here, never here. omina milhertanta.

what the fuck language am i speaking? brandon said he didn't speak english, but spoke in music. he doesn't COUNT, can't you see that? gah. but if i can't understand my own language, how dare i call myself a writer? how dare i lay my entity on being a writer? you see i'm so full of shit that it's not even a question anymore.

here. here. HERE.

i can't do this anymore. i have to go run away somewhere in the recesses of my brain & pray that erin is gone when i return. go play with colleen, go to cisat. just go away & let me have this space to myself for once.