drink of the evening: vanilla cream and rum.
so the performance was actually quite enjoyable. while we were sitting there, colleen was going off on how all i do is write. write write write. what do i write about? why do i write so much?
this is what i wrote tonight:
//
How can I be in love with him when he is essentially a facade created by myself? At least I know I'm not going to see him this weekend. Next time I see him, though, I'm going to be, at the very least, congenial. Gobstoppers are not nearly as satisfying as Tootsie Pops. Tomorrow, I WILL start my COMM paper. I won't go out tomorrow night. Hm. The girl had to tell the guy to stand up. Hm. Beanies do it for me. Baby. Colleen is asking me about what I write. She's slightly obsessed. An Unrequited Love Affair. Hm - story of my life? Always writing, that's me. Would that I were only good at it.
(con't)
Comfortable in my own body.
Does that make me cool? The 'situation' is making me nauseous. I thought this was supposed to be a good thing! That girl has Intense hair. Intense isf my word of the moment. I need to MOVE THE FUCK ON!!!
I've always had this imagination! Why was it encouraged when I was young but now I have to live in a real world
//
Yeah
Frat parties do not do it for me. Alas, that is all there is to do here. And so, I sit in my room. Getting drunk. By myself. With my door open. And no one coming in. Listening to Phantom Planet. Thinking about how I should be a lesbian because I do not get boys. At all. Too many. Periods. At least. I look cute. Tonight. Too bad. There is no one. To enjoy. It.