the way the sky tastes.

I am so ill. Not even in that wonderful way that I like to pretend to be (note to self: I am not, and never will be, Peter Wentz) but mind-numbingly, miserably sick, and its really gross and the sleeping for half-hours at a time between long periods of pacing and writing absolutely nothing of value (unless you include mindless rambinglings about my views on standards of humanity, my god, horrendous stuff people) is driving me up the proverbial wall.

So. In between my flails of misery I am here to alert you:


My god, I am actually sort of loving what I'm writing for the Frankenstein story.

If I made it original characters, Patrick would obviously be "Victor". Coughcough.
And Pete, Pete, for some reason I'm just totally in love with the idea of him being purely and simply a thought, just borne of some restless childs mind, a need for articulation and protection from loneliness.

Ah! Such excitement! I refuse to abandon this idea, flat-out fucking refuse.


I miss all of you, pretty much.
Wanted to talk to you today. And yesterday.
Me getting over myself? It happens in slow, short bursts. But its happening. And while I know its totally possible that maybe I'll lose whatever spark you find so fascinating, its kind of...
nice. Just...
"growing up became growing old."
Not for me. I refuse to let it. I'm just...learning, is all.


And Im starting to figure out...how not to regret. If I felt it was a good idea at the time...well, let me face the consequences. I will stay faithful to my past self's decisions and beliefs. Like, defending the friend you know is wrong but still, its your friend. You gotta back em up, stick with em till the end.


Love.