tide rushes by where we stand
<< 6:09 p.m. - Thursday, Mar. 20, 2003 >>

I can�t pretend like her name hasn�t come up in my thoughts. And I can�t pretend like I don�t know her diary exists, because it does. It is drilling into my head with psychotic precision, and forcing out any kind thought I had previously. Why do I get so angry? Why do I get so hostile? Any authoritarian approach toward me has been met with kicking and screaming. I won�t tolerate a condescending voice. Don�t tell me what roads to follow, because it�s my turn to decide. Don�t tell me what color to put here and what adjective to cram there. And don�t tell me what I think. Fuck if I even know. Just don�t.

I don�t think I know you. I�m not writing you off like I complain everyone writes me off. If you read more carefully, maybe you would see that I blame myself for having fewer friends that I used to. I�m happier that way. I am the one that blames myself for everything that goes wrong. I have this to reiterate:

But if you really want to know who I am - If you�re the person who so commonly tells me that I�m secretive and closed off. Well then you are one who closes your eyes. I am nothing. Not secretive, not plotting, not even insightful. You see me in my original form and hope for more. Surely no one can be as flat and 1 dimensional as I. But truth be told, I make up mysteries to hide the fact that I really have none. I am just a girl that wishes she could explain why she�s so fucked up and so desolate. Hypochondriac me.

I�m not angry with you. I�m just disappointed. If you�re aching with sadness, you must tell us. You can�t expect sympathy from those who don�t know you suffer.