Something always weighs down my tongue. When I want to be kind and comfort, my tongue freezes and my mind empties. Nothing surfaces to be spoken. When I want to lash out in cruel anger, I'm trapped by that which simply must be some form of conscience. Yet words come bubbling out constantly, in a streaming river that pours into the cupped ears of anyone who cares to listen. The words just aren't what I mean.
Writing in a diary isn't pure either. Words are guarded because of the ever-present fear that someone - anyone - will find and read and know what I desire hidden. But in the end, what do I have to hide? Nothing. I pride myself on being open and honest to everyone. But that same self revels in her lies and manipulation of the weaker souls around her.
And it feels like the movies, because I've done something heavy. And now I'm all alone and you know I like it. Well, I wish I was older...and that I could hold my liquor. And then I'd blow your cover instead of my own. 'Cause there's nothing I can do to prove that I still love you...and I think I hear my friends through the walls.
I'm going to fade to black. I think I'm going to fade to black. And I swear to God I'll take it back - but it's just no use, what's done is done. I can't blame anyone but me.
I ought to talk about my day a bit. That's what a diary is for, after all. Let's see...I went to work. That's always fun. I fall out of bed - or would, if my bed wasn't covered in Lip Service brand clothing and I wasn't sleeping on the floor - at four thirty every morning so I can hurry to the bakery that pays my salary. I serve people danishes and coffee and mini-pizzas for several hours. When my relief calvary arrives, I charge home in Donatello, the noble and trusty steed and prepare for school. Today I was sidetracked from this mission by my brother and ended up going to school late, without my textbooks and other necessary supplies. However, I looked damn good in a terrifying combination of PVC and stripes.
Appearance is important to me. If one is not a work of art than one should wear one. I believe Oscar Wilde said something to that effect. I do my best to be visually interesting, and I hope that my personality is considered entertaining as well. But if I myself am not a work of art, it's best that my clothing be. I want to be a fashion designer someday, after all.
I drive to school. I'm terrible at it - every day I nearly have a half dozen collisions. But that's OK - I've had my license exactly one week today. Once I hit campus I half-walk, half-run to the Campus Center to meet my baby. Bandaid, as only a select few and I are allowed to call her, is one of my dearest friends and I think half the school believes we're lesbian lovers. Today I was surprised to see my other lover - who gets no lovin' from me, poor fellow - out of class too. What a bad boy - he ended up blowing off his band class for the fifty-millionth time. Just because I skip class constantly and am going to fail half my classes this quarter doesn't mean it's fine for anybody else to do it.
Today I did go to class. I only have one - Japanese. Practice makes perfect, right? I had a disappointing midterm, and during the class break Bandaid and I said - direct quote - "Screw it!" and left. I hate doing that to our teacher - she's awesome - but we can only take so much lessons in a day.
She and the Boyfriend didn't want to stay for Anime Club, which I'm a member of for some weird reason, so we rode off into the sunset with Donatello. Yee-haw.