12.20.2001
 
It's cold. It's fucking cold. And if my house was cold, imagine how I felt during the 40 minutes wait outside in the cold for my dad to pick me up.

This just hits too close to home. Well, I'm more or less at the beginning of that whole thing, but still... I'm tired of being confined.

Home has a talent for extracting stories from me. I love him/ hate him for it.

Sign that I'm feeling hesistant, apprehensive, etc.: watching Moulin Rouge on the tv isn't improving my mood.

Still need to hear from Sarah about any possible group outings during winter break.

It seems that my day stays fine until I'm allowed five minutes to think. Perhaps this is why people obtain hobbies to pass the time.

I need to start writing again. Drawing and art offer no solace.

I need to...

... shit.

I hate being melodramatic. But at the moment I can't help it.

. . . . . posted:||7:43 PM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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