tired of this life. if i ever become a rockstar and record an album, that may be a contender for one of the titles i would choose from.

the way i see it, life is nothing but a bunch of if's shining out on a brilliantly lit, bedazzling stage covering up hideous NEVERs with faces so malformed and twisted. it's all a show, and i've got nothing to wear.

actually that's not true. i have plenty to wear, but nowhere to wear it. prancing around my house in stacked stilettos, i trip over my depression, hanging there like some kind of fern, waiting for water. and oh, i feed it. the rain starts in my brain, leaks out through my terrified eyes, races down my overblushed cheeks, quenches my thirsty heart with bitterness.

it's interesting how i use this diary mostly just to bitch about my inner turmoil, and the diaryland one more about the outer happenings. well it's interesting to me anyhow.

i'm getting disillusioned with my diaryland diary though. it doesn't feel right anymore. i can't think fluidly trapped in that little white box in which all my thoughts are supposed to fit. this box, it's bigger, it's wider, it's more forgiving for the chaos that i like to stir up like a cup of coffee.

plus i doubt more than one or two people besides me reads this diary, so i feel less constricted by a potential audience. i mean, i certainly don't really censor myself, or make things appear better than they are, but i'll just avoid talking about certain things or people...i don't know.

lift me from my misery.