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2005-11-12 - 10:01 p.m.
Sorry. Rant.

Now there's a testament to her legacy on the carpet.
And he keeps making cameos in my dreams. It's hard to make one listen to common sense, and everything you yourself know when you see him every night. And is it even him? Or just a white knight?
It doesn't matter what I write or how I write it, or what critiques I adhere to. It's always the same mark.
I have very short hair, now. Very short. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I don't.
I want to find that thing in The Gauntlet. I really want to see if its true. I want to cut it out, and have a tiny bit of self esteem. But I don't know how to find it. I won't. Because nothing ever seems to work in my favour.
I am sick of people. I am sick of being emberassed of our conversations. I am sick of being looked down upon. I don't want to be told you've been through it, too. Or that I don't need this. Or that it will get better. Or that I am wrong. And I am sick of being critized all the time. I can't win. I will never be what they want, or what I want, and I work to hard. I am so tired. I am tired of working so hard for what everyone else deems to be part of a regular life. And when you finish one thing, there is another, and another, and another. There will never be another day in my life when there isn't something else I should be doing. That needs to be done.
I just want to sit, and curl up in my own little place, and be done with it all. And just have a steaming mug, and a fire, and the snowflakes drifting outside. Or maybe its rain. But I don't want to be tired anymore. I don't want to work so hard at every bloody thing.
I don't want to care so much. I don't want to be sitting here, typing this, because there is nothing else I can do. I wish I had the guts to just not do my work, or to tell people exactly what I think, or to run away. But I am too worried about what they will think. I am built up out of these worries, out of these impressions I am trying to give to other people. I don't know who I am.
I love my room. It is perfect, and it is mine. And I could lie in it forever. But I'm not allowed. There is too much to do.
It would be nice, if for once, something would just happen for me. Something would just go right. Then maybe I wouldn't be so tired anymore.

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