i've changed so much. i feel so vacant, vapid, whatever. i never thought my life would turn out this way. i've completely forgotten the beauty in being alone. i used to see life as amazing; there was always something new to isolate and describe and think about. now i can't say the same.

my life is great today, yes. 2005, i'm seventeen and so much older; but it's great in a fragile, temporary sense; like any second now the new idealised world that has been built up over time will crumble and send me back into the dark. we ended up together and i love her so much, i take photographs of her, i stroke her skin. i can see her, but nothing else beyond. i'm so lost, and i only realise this whenever i'm alone. i don't know what to do. i guess i'm only in a coma, but she's going to leave me for dead.

finally: the archives.

ugly template, but i think i can deal with it, namely because i haven't the relevant HTML knowledge. i miss this journal a lot.

i'd like to formally close this journal. i'm not going to delete, roadblock, or kill it. there's no sentimentality! it's been beautiful, and it will stay that way, because what i've written will stay the same no matter what i choose to write about, or where i choose to go. i like to think everything i've skimmed through over the past hour was me. flighty, slight, maybe delusional; but it was all me. i'll attempt to set up an Archives page in a bit, i always did love history.

goodbye, goodbye.

for die-hard fans: a continuation of the epic!

nina, this is a public call for you. NINA. i lost your number a long time ago, i don't know how to contact you, where you are, or what you've been doing. i doubt you are reading this, considering you deleted your journal and i haven't updated in eons, but STILL. NINA. I MISS YOU. my email is the same; so is everything else, mostly anyway.

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.

i'm listening to The Hives. ah, the joys of good old garage rock. when the obscure French fellow Trenet comes on my eyes will close themselves.

it is raining outside, and i am snug like a watercolour painting with white cloth draped over it. does anyone here own a bathrobe? it would be nice to own a bathrobe, dye your hair platinum blonde, and lounge around with a cigarette looking authentic and trashy.

there is a lizard on my wall. i wish it would stay still long enough for me to draw it messily. my dears, i am sated, sleepy, and in no mood for linguistics.

edit: i forgot to mention that the vending machine bit my finger. but i guess i've forgiven it, because of the Doritos and Cheezels.