48 Hours

I forget that its my diary sometimes and I can say whatever I please. Purge it all out. Right now, my diary is being read by someone else and I can't censor it...I just feel drained, and tired and weak and I just wan purge every little cell in my body. Fuck the dust. It left me a long long time ago.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do next to tell you the truth. I was reading the Observer Music Monthly and I was enjoying the writing, I felt witty and smart and quick-minded. Now, god, I don't know whats going on inside my mind. I don't want to go there right now. Can't it just fade away and play or chess or something for a day or something? I want to play dead. I, I'm jut feeling useless and teary. If my Dad wasn't looking at the TV distractedly I'd be pumped full of god knows and I couldn't make this post. But no, I'm just depressingly insinuated and happily void. Or void in the happy sense, you can make your own mind up.

Why don't people comment on my blog anymore? Not that I've written anything substantial to comment on. I'm just fucking fucking fucking crazy. God. If I don't stop typing I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know who to be anymore. I used to be the quirky funny lass but I'm too slow and stupid. I used to be the brainbox but I can't breathe. I used to be a poet, but I've lost almost all of my rhythm. I am precisely nothing. Nor funny, nor pretty nor happy nor devious. I don't seem to lie anymore. I...just...mope. Meander round like a silly bitch. I'll have to stop typing now and see what happens. Maybe I'll be able to pull something - like myself? - out of the void I've just tripped into. Bloody hell. I've been caught by surprise, haven't I?