Sadness is sinking in again. I spent the whole afternoon under the comforter listening to Sarah McLaughlin while staring out at the clouds drifting by. Wendy called but I refused to talk to anyone. My mom yelled at me to get my lazy ass out of bed and get ready to go to religious ed, and I threw the pillow in her face. God, I don't feel good about myself anymore.

I'm beginning to doubt my artistic ability. Sure, if all talent to drawing was looking at something and making lines and smudges on a sheet of paper which in turn resembles the object in question, then I've got that down pat. If, however, artistic talent is the ability to view the world differently and then express that slightly-off-beat perspective in what you do, I am no where near that. It seems that all creativity is now-a-days is recycling ideas either consciously or subconsciously, but regardless there is nothing new. No new ideas. No new thoughts. Everyone borrows and paraphrases what others have said and claim that idea was all their's. Not even this concept of imaginitive exhaustion is completely original. Heck, the artists of the 70's could explain it far better than I.

I doubt all painting talent I had. Black and white was a simple excercise in contrasts of light, dark, and texture. Now, in color I must worry about keeping the colors clean and applying the right amount of paint onto my palette and then transfering it to my canvas. And what I have done for the excercise painting in art has been far below my previous standard. I just can't paint when my mind is preoccupied. Not only is the whole Eric situation going over badly, but that sour taste in the back of my throat has become an allergy-induced coughing fit. Each time I feel as if sulfuric acid is being poured down my mouth, scraping at the already raw and red flesh there. During art I had a rather bad fit of coughing and managed to cough up something completely disgusting. I hate my weak, sickly body.

And it seems now that everything happened in art today. Fellow kindred spirit Liz was having a bad day as well when she felt that she was losing control over people. Her recent infatuation rejected her, and she's torn up because she can do so much better, and men better than him had wanted her badly as well. That's the trouble with oozing sexuality 24/7, people think either your a slut or completely unattainable. It's like something I heard on the radio the other day, that pretty women are often single because men are intimidated by them. As strange as that may seem, I agree whole heartedly. Most people don't have the self esteem to approach someone who has been put up on a pedastel, as I like to say. Others just assume that they're taken already and don't even bother. So, we sat together, her head resting on my shoulder while I worked reluctantly on my painting, talking about life in general. And as the Vice President of both the Sadness club and the Singles club at school... well, that doesn't speak highly of me, now does it?

I'm completely behind in all my homework due tomorrow, but I don't give a damn anymore. I've entered my downward spiral again, and I need someone to lend a hand and save me before I fall. I need someone to let me break down in their arms as the caress my head soothingly. I need... him.

Heh, funny how one small phone call from your former beau can send you into nostalgic hell. Why the hell did he do that to me?

God, someone shut my grandma up before I slit her fucking throat.