She Wasn't Bitter. She Was Sad, Though.

It's Kind Of Like When You Look At Yourself In The Mirror And You Say Your Name. And It Gets To A Point Where None Of It Seems Real. Well, Sometimes I Can Do That, But I Don't Need An Hour In Front Of A Mirror. It Just Happens Very Fast, And Things Start To Slip Away. And I Just Open My Eyes, And I See Nothing. And Then I Start To Breathe Really Hard Trying To See Something, But I Can't. It Doesn't Happen All The Time, But When It Does, It Scares Me.

I Feel Like A Big Faker Because I've Been Putting My Life Back Together, And Nobody Knows.

And All The Books You've Read Have Been Read By Other People. And All The Songs You've Loved Have Been Heard By Other People. And That Girl That's Pretty To You Is Pretty To Other People. And That If You Looked At These Facts When You Were Happy, You Would Feel Great Because You Are Describing 'unity.

On Friday Night, I Was Reading My New Book, But My Brain Got Tired, So I Decided To Watch Some Television Instead.

I Sat Down And Tried To Write A Story. "ian Macarthur Is A Wonderful Sweet Fellow Who Wears Glasses And Peers Out Of Them With Delight." That Was The First Sentence. The Problem Was That I Just Couldn't Think Of The Next One. After Cleaning My Room Three Times, I Decided To Leave Ian Alone For A While Because I Was Starting To Get Mad At Him.