Every time I attempt to say something intelligent, I tend to lose my train of thought and end up making absolutely no sense what so ever.

(warning: gratuitous whiny post up ahead)

Sometimes I wish I could organize my thoughts and dissect things analytically as well as the Duck can. I'm hesitant to call it verbose (since that tends to have a negative connotation recently).... Descriptive? Thorough? There's a possibility that I could write at his calibre. Just give me several years to work on that. Or I could just blame the computer for all that woe; there's something about a computer screen that zaps all coherent speech out of me.

Steven and his artist's statement was far better written than the one I slopped together for my AIDS project. But I admire him for a few more things than just that. He can still be semi-descriptive about his emotions even when he is completely distraught and withdrawn.

Brittany can manage to do just that. Or at least go into detail about her day without keeping things excessively vague and cryptic.

Or I could recount amazing moments with my boyfriend the way that he manages to. Sometimes I read what he writes and I forget that those events were real and not just out of a book.

But the greatest fear I have at the moment is that Matt might very well be right about me. Recently I've been dreading our phone conversations because he manages to remind me about things which I don't want to recall (even though I should). For instance, today was a screaming match over the phone followed by extended silences and half whispered apologisies. I was even singing along to my Rent CD when I called him, and that couldn't keep my mood up.

I've been realizing lately that I don't have those same typical symptoms that people have. Withdrawn: yes, but only when I'm at home. Quiet: haven't been so in the past week. Sleepy: only because I need to kill time and knocking myself unconscious seems the most painless way of passing the hours.

I can't believe that he had the gaul to bring THAT up while we were discussing... the other topic. I should probably tell him that the only reason I ever started any of this was because of him.

Dammit, I don't like him anymore and even still he remains a fixture in my life.

It's about time I tell Karen. If anyone deserves to know, it's her. Now if only I could contact her without doing something tacky like a lengthy, sob-story email.

Even though I haven't cried in the past three years. I'm proud of that fact, yet at the same time my eyes have been constantly dry.

So I live life by the music it plays. It's the only thing that gets me by.

My sketchbook has once again become something incriminating if the administration ever got a hold of it.

Urgh... once again jealousy rears it's ugly green head. This is one of those times where I wish I wasn't filipino. All the boys I happen to like (or did like, for that matter) are into pale skin. Hell, so am I. I spend some of my time watching The Naked Chef on the FoodNetwork to drool over the chef instead of the food.

Shit, I'm letting the music dictate my mood again.

I'm capable of helping myself through rough times. Why do people think that I need to see a psychiatrist, even though I know exactly what's wrong with me? Maybe I enjoy the pain.

Ack, the dualities of persona. I need to put down the Jung, Goethe, and Hesse before I regress back to my Dali worshipping ways.

Speaking of which, I still have a paper to write. ::screaming obscenities::