anybody: Apr. 21, 2002 (9:53 pm)

so here i am and this is who i am and i'm writing run on sentences and displaying my pain for everyone to read and in some sick way enjoy. they call it art.

(paul used to call me a pleasure and i just really didn't understand. crabs in a bucket, he could feel better by looking at how far down in the bucket i was. is that all it was? really, was it? i wouldn't know. we haven't spoken in three weeks. i bet he hasn't noticed.)

i'm not really so individual, i don't think, i just grasp on to certain concepts but i don't think they're that novel. just sort of things that echo around in my head.

i am jealous. and is it love by default? how would i know? of him, and the people he seems to like to talk to more than me. i wish i could get a hold on things, to appreciate some small fragment of wonder in myself that i can't find through all the echos going around in my head.

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