witty-remark's Diaryland Diary



I like to fuck myself over really bad.
It's great.
Actually, I don't consciencely do it.
See, what I should be doing is writing a play analysis. However, what I'm actually doing is wasting time annnd
Oh...Conan is on right now. He's my husband! He's my husband!

Okay, that was great. I've just wasted an hour and royally fucked myself even more. At this rate, I should become a pornstar.

I'm so stressed out I can feel the neurons in my brain giving up. They're all "stop thinking!" and I'm all "No! It's crucial that I lay awake at three in the morning worrying about U of C enrollment with sporadic flashbacks of things I did that make me hate myself!"

I love how poor my writing becomes when my thoughts degenerate and I'm super tired. But then, when I write like this it mimics how I talk in my mind. Normally I write all flowery and shit; it's too much. Why do I do that?

Should I wear that dress tomorrow? I think no because I have a feeling that I'll be ugly tomorrow since I'm sleeping very late. I want to save the dress for a day when I look nice. Like the face and everything.

I was waiting at the bus stop today and I realized I was talking to myself. Ramble, ramble, ramble. It was really weird; I didn't even realize it. I was sitting there all alone and I snapped back and I had words on my tongue that my mouth was telling me to finish, but my brain didn't know what to say. Like I had an unfinished thought and...it was so strange. I've become one of the crazy's! I talk to myself a lot these days, it's reassuring. It's like you're never alone.

What a long entry about shit-all.

1:32 a.m. - Tuesday, May. 08, 2007

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