2004-03-23 - 6:50 p.m.

This is the story of the boys who loved you

Who love you now and loved you then

And some were sweet, some were cold and snuffed you

And some just laid around in bed.

Some had crumbled you straight to your knees

Did it cruel, did it tenderly

Some had crawled their way into your heart

To rend your ventricles apart

This is the story of the boys who loved you

This is the story of your red right ankle.

-The Decemberists

I'm indulging an extremely angsty entry today. So be warned.

I'm exhausted. I feel stupid. I feel so stupid. What am I missing? What do I so obviously lack that makes me stil, always, not up to par? "What would make you cross the border?" says Savage/Love. Whatever that is, I clearly don't have it. And I'm sick of hoping. I'm also sick of caring, but I'm brave enough to be comfortably hopeless, and I'll never be sad enough to be entirely careless. It would look like carelessness, Mr. Worthing, and your Aunt Augusta shan't put up with that. She shouldn't put up with my aforementioned ventricals either. Besides, I'm not really lacking, am I? "Born of a blinding light and a changing wind, Now, don't be modest, you know who you are and where you've been." and all that. A Tough Mama, I'm told. Thanks, Bob. But for a moment it was so easy. So easy. And lovely. I am never letting that happen again. I'm not going to be anyone's fool again. Take the fool away. Do you not hear, fellow? Take away the lady. Go to. You're a dry fool: I'll no more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest. Olivia, you are a bright one! She hath abjur'd the company and sight of men. But I, my friends, am stuck licking my wounds and making desperate vows against my stupidity and listening to songs on repeat because, children, when I fall I fall hard from this scaffold, from this building, from this wall. Will somebody please stop using their squeegee for erasing and scrape me off the pavement?

I apologize for the overdramatic aspects of this entry but damn it I feel this way. That's my first step. No more apologizing for feelings. So there. On a scale from 1 to awesome, I am supergreat, right? I'm allowed? Maybe? Yeah, I don't believe it either. I'm still mad at myself. Ah, bell-bottom blues, you made me cry. I don't want to lose this feeling (I hear you, Eric)

I feel raw. I've been told that I'm rare, but I'm just bleeding and it's my own bloody fault. Thanks for listening. Maybe soon I'll learn.