i feel great. i lied to save your feelings. truth convened, my head smashed through the ceiling. i lost an arm, no one harmed, you diplomatically alarmed. i sulked away to lick my thin skin. i'm not over you. i'm not over you. i'm not over you.

that was by michael stipe, poetry escapes me nowadays.

the more i recoil, the more i sink. occasionally i look at myself and realise i am cheap as anything. there's no other word. perhaps tart, slut, hopeless case. god, when it comes to her, i bury my pride at the end of eden. last night i had insomnia because i kept feeling her draped over me, arms around me - i talked and whimpered in my sleep. it all seems too absurd, burlesque like in Literature class; laced with cruel humour.

i have been ill for the past week. i was sick at least fifteen times in a row. anorexia is not glamourous; my attempt to appear world-weary while leaning against the bathtub failed miserably when the showercap collapsed and i yelled.

idea and imagination-wise, i have nothing new; but tiffany and i have been practising an awful lot. our sessions are enough to make my fingers feel baked, we lug our guitars around every day and eat illegally. her voice rivals that of a chanteuse in a black dress, while mine is still falling short of the Cobain snarl.