mar7/00

2. So we'll just shut ourselves in and pray.

1 . And I know I was wrong about them. They're happy because they know and they can see. I'm polluted and crying in my soul of souls.

(in poem form)

3 .Hold my pen, poised carefully above blank pages. Just that kind of day. I'm trying to spew out this mess of emotion thats drowning me. Want you to understand. Want to get it out and open and move on. I've got a shitload of work to do this week. A math test today. Three classes I can't afford to miss but desperately need to. I want to be able to communicate this.

So whats with the sadness today. no reason, no excuse. I can't function like this. I need out. I need to just get out. I wish I could cry and somehow release those endorphins or whatever they're called, get things moving agin. I don't have a reason or a right, and the tears are trapped behind a growing migraine, behind the tissue and pain in my head.

Considered ignoring this. Probably should have. Probably should have thrust it aside and kept smiling. Probably should have been able to.

I can't afford to dive into this right now. Can't afford to sort out and deal with and make decisions concerning my current state of wmotions. I can't afford not to either, because the unresoved mess of thoughts is about to break through my defenses either way.

And I need to ignore this.

Tried calling. Tried beggin. Tried to escape my life for another day. But it probably wouldn't have helped much. The sky is overcast. How can I let that get me down. How can I be so tuned to sunlight. It's not fucking fair! It's not bloody fucking fair!
Days like these I consider taking her happy pills. It's times like these that I relaise I was vain and stupid to think I could cope all on my own. To think I could deal with it and come out without too many scars.
Ya. Look at my arms already. look at my ankles. look at the life signs etched into them. Crisscrossed with pencil thin lines of hard reality. Something concrete. It all makes sense now, you see, It all makes so much sense.

4.

Mar7/00 - 1.00pm
Whole fucking 15 minutes wasted because Mrs. Gacek is a technicality-type bitch. Apparently she was under orders from my mom to not let me go to the sick room. *************************!
So. Even though I had permission from my mom to miss this one class and go to the sick room, Mrs. Gacek didn't believe me and wanted it cleared by Mr. Pauls. who she couldn't find, thank god, or else the one class I needed to regain control of things would have been completely wasted whil I begged for permission to do so. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate ignorant people?

Customary Sick Room Procedure:
1. Close door, bar with chair.
2. Close window overlooking library, lock.
3. Open blinds.
4. Open window. Prop with wastebasket, open outside window. Breathe.
5. Write fucking write!
6. Bask in sunlight.
7. Sleep if time allows.

I don't know what the fuck my mom is thinking, but last time I checked, emotional stability ranked slightly higer than academic integrity on most peoples list of priorities.
URGLEE!!!!!!
At least this has given me something to rant on and on about. My melancholy will most likely dissapate with my anger.