9:08 pm - Tuesday, Nov. 19, 2002
Song:
My head pounds with a rhythm and helps push thoughts around my paranoid mind. I�m not sure how it works. I picture the worst and cry when I�m relived of the pain of waiting and worrying.
I thought he didn�t have to work tonight, but if that is the case, then where is he. My mind flashes a series of pictures. Clips from old ER�s and car accident videos from Drivers Ed. Someone promise me he�s okay.
Feeling sick and watching TV, I made myself a boy from my pillow and wanted to cry until I was close to him again. I want to hate everything without him here. And I don�t care because I have no original ideas.
I want Beau Sia�s perfect cynicism, but I�m nothing but a mix of words and pieces I�ve adapted from the way other people write. I�m unoriginal and boring.
So why do my fingers ache. Cracking the knuckles too much, or passion for the words I drum. My poor bitten down nails and my speakers telling me to break at the bends.
I�m so selfish and stupid. I love myself as much as I hate me and everyone, though I don�t mean to because I love them all.
I want dreams where I drink something that flames and burns like alcohol and takes me away. Absinthe.
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