My Head is Blank.

I'm starting to really feel awful. I need Christmas break to come. I want to go somewhere with Katrina Castro, maybe not come back. If you need to know anything it's that, in the grand scheme of things, you will never compare to Katrina Castro.

Never.

I've been feeling my heartbeat in my stomach. It's loud, it hasn't gone away. It almost hurts a little bit. This isn't a metaphor for anything, it's a genuine, physical feeling I've been experiencing. Actually, it hurts a lot. Ouch. Who knew a heartbeat could twist and knot a gut so badly? The heart is my least favourite organ. It's so omnipresent. You always feel it at the worst of times, and it makes bad times even more so by picking those times when you want to pull a blank face and act alright, to lodge itself in your throat so every time you speak nothing comes out but wavering whispers that make people think you're about to cry. I don't cry.

So I ate a piece of bread, mainly because Starshine was worried because I confessed to him the last time I had eaten something. He gave me an ultimatum, eat right then or he wasn't speaking to me.

Starshine is a great friend, I love him to death. Hear that Star? I love you. Sincerely, your Sunshine.

The bread is burning in my throat, and my stomach feels rawer than before. It's hollow like a cave, and in the corner, is that little beating heart on the cold wet floor, like I mentioned earlier, beating in my stomach and causing all sorts of upsets.

I'm not trying to whine, I feel as if I am. I'm just explaining exactly how I feel at this precise and exact moment, without filtering any thoughts. Still, it sounds like whining. I whine a lot, I'm doomed to whine forever. No one wants to be around someone who whines.

My deep and utter hatred for Jeep Liberties has been increasing rather quickly. Every time I see one I feel my tonsils fall like heavy little balls of lead to the pit of my stomach. Then I curse. I curse them into oblivion. Awful vehicles.

My art class isn't an art class. Mr.Valadez said I couldn't paint my jellyfish hot pink and orange, and I couldn't put it in outer space because it isn't realistic. I asked him who on Earth said art was supposed to be realistic. He told me to paint it underwater or I'd get points dropped. Well I'll paint it underwater, and he may think the jellyfish is underwater, but it's really underwater on a distant planet where jellyfish are kings and can bend minds.

Take that, reality.


I don't feel like writing anymore, I don't feel like anything anymore.
I'm sorry to announce I've become a wall, like the ones I've been speaking to lately.

Bis später,
Summer

Echo me, Astronaut.

There's a hole in my wall. Strange, it looks as if the doorknob made it, but there's a door-stopper on the baseboard. Perhaps it was put there after the hole was made, but what good would it do if there was already a hole in the first place? It bothers me. Through my peripheral vision it looks like a fat black spider, with its legs all curled under it, waiting for someone (probably myself) to let their hand linger a little too close, let their fingers get dangerously near to eight, shiny black eyes, and two, bloated pincers. Then of course, it'd bite and I'd be more scared than hurt. I'd jerk back, natural instinct of course. And the spider would fall, and crawl into a dark corner, and it'd hide there till the night, when it'd creep out for its delightful revenge.

Then I remember it's just a hole in the wall.

This room has no furniture, it looks too small for it anyway. Currently, it's a room with one actual bed, one camp-bed, and vinyl, wood patterned floors. She said it was real hardwood before we moved in, but she confessed later it was just vinyl. Vinyl wood floors feel like a lie. It looks like hardwood, but it was really just a roll of plastic material that a sweaty, smelly man rolled onto the floor. I guess what I'm trying to say is that vinyl floors have no integrity.

in·teg·ri·ty   
[in-teg-ri-tee]
–noun
1. Adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.

I feel like these vinyl floors.


Semi colons are my favourite form of punctuation, but I'll admit, I have never used one correctly, unless Microsoft Word corrects my imperfect grammar and suggests I use one. If I was a word, would I be incorrect? Would I have a red squiggle underneath me, and if you right-clicked, what would be a better alternative to have instead of me? I wish I could right-click and fix a lot of things. Or ctrl-x all my problems away.

I should end this ramble with something that actually matters, or even makes a little bit of sense. But instead I'll end this on my current thought of this exact moment:

Mark Linkous, the world misses you, or at least I do.
YOU are worth hundreds of sparrows.