I can't always talk like that. My world is too real. It's like taking pictures with the flash. If you don't use the flash, indoors, the pictures and colors are blurry. I hate using the flash. You can see everything.

I keep thinking, "Why are you unhappy?" There's that though, "If you're in love it ought to make you happy. You ought to laugh." It's true. So I keep thinking how I ought to be happy and what to do to get there.

First, my body is unsatisfactory. For so long I have felt like it was swollen. Like I had been beaten in the night and woken up bruised and large, my body bursting forth from my skin. It's better now, now that I wake up and run. I listen to a song about daylight and stare at the grass (which is covered in snow lately even though it's March) and use my legs until my body glistens like it's woken up in dew. I feel better, smaller, like somebody wrapped me up tight in a present and his hands are smoothing over mine. I want to feel like this forever.

I learned a Greek word and I keep writing it all over my body and the papers lying around my room. It means to be ripe. I want to be ripe. I dug myself a hole, laid in it, and let myself rot. Now I am crawling out and wishing to grow.

Then there's this other phrase, "It's Okay. It's better this way." I have to believe that to get out of the hole. I believe the hole was necessary. It's better to be crawling out of the hole.

I want to be beautiful. I am too alone. I don't understand why people don't want to call me, or see me, or laugh with me. I see people at work all the time and I think we get along. I talk to them, ask them, answer them. But nobody ever asks if I want to spend time with them. And I do. I come home and crawl back inside my whale of a house and curl up amongst the digested food and know exactly where all the trails inside of it lead. I want new trails.

SO I watch Skins. I watch it over and over. I write about it.

It's sad, really. I just want to fall asleep, and let things be organized.

I took a "test" once during a horrible nice. I described the color white as wonderful, calm, organized, beautiful. Then somebody told me, "That's how you feel about death."

Yeah.