.

I don't really have much to say except that I've wasted reading week being very very very depressed. I have so much work to do and I can't really seem to get started and I am beginning to fear for my life. I am completely isolated as ever, but it seems to weigh on me more. If I die, no one will know about it until I am late on rent. I am being self pitying but it is also a pragmatic way of looking at things as I tend to go weeks at a time without talking to anyone at all. I may get "help" this summer but I'd really rather just disappear for awhile--not that I could afford it--I cannot stand much more of my condition and it seems that things need to change. I don't care for prescriptions but my generally unhappy and morose (yet functionally witty, I might say) demeanour has been replaced with the inability to even fake smile or get out of bed so I don't know. Noone likes you when you're down, not that I've ever been sufficiently "up" or convinced of my being "liked" on any sort of regular basis, so as soon as school ends, don't expect to hear from me for awhile. Best of luck to my friedns I hardly ever talk to.

22 idle years

I wish I could hold together the structure of my thoughts, but they jingle around in my head like tacks, their little red haloes lessen the tiny stings by half. Pity.

I've destroyed myself again and I feel as though my skull bleaches itself without the necessity of death or rot. My misery is a pretty fucking arid place.

I wait for telephones that will not ring and if they do, the voices that speak will come from mouths whose words burn hotly behind stupid tongues that manage to chastise and congratulate in the same tone.

I push everyone and their beautiful deliberate walks away from me, nice things said I roll my eyes.

No flowers--I have allergies.

No chocolates--I am not hungry again.

Nothing heart shaped unless it's still bleeding and in a cool jar.

That's just the way I am. Too worthy to be worthy. Take it away.

Let me rot and wallow in my lonely little melodrama that no one wants to see.

Let my bones protrude and the vein above my eye show through my skin when it becomes like the paper I would be writing this on if it weren't for the convenience of my keyboard

It's got three sticky keys that I have to use a knife to pull uppp.

Let the room fill up with smoke because no one will object if the pack goes down and my lungs dry up.

I'll make the room smell of secrets, here where your words are not heard, no desire needs to ever be felt at all because we leave that at the door here.

Right by the umbrellas that I never remember I have.