your varying degrees of "greatest"

tugging the deepest of heartstrings. Were my arms too short to ransom you from broken skin and black and blue? Stitch your eyes so you could read this forever...read this forever.

Gdamn. I fucked up. Fucked up. Forget these plans of saving myself. I already did myself in. If only I thought about this earlier or something, you know? All I had to do was kick my ass earlier. Well. Fuck it.

The moon is down.

The sky is up.

There's a word for writing inspired by other writing.

But the highlight of my day is reading my essay that I got back from English. She liked it. She said it was well-written. A little redundant. But I can deal with that. Hey, did you say you believed in my writing? Hey, did you say you believed me? Ever since I could remember, the pen and the paper were my best friends. And they still are. The only things that completely support and believe in me, because I fuel their existence. And I dont give a fuck about my dreams anymore about whatever, about writing, about that stupid shit...because it's not real. I never pictured my life to be like this. Kind of thought I was on track, but I realized that I make my own.

So remember that. Make your own track. I think the only thing you'll ever get out of me is an example. Mistakes to learn from when you don't want to make your own.

I always say I'll live for you. I'll die for you. But then when it comes down to it, and I'm up for the self-sacrifice, sometimes I can't deal with the feelings, no matter what "good" came out of it. Typing fast. Ugh.

Well. This shit isn't coming out on Friday. Count on that. Kind of ready to just throw up the flag. But I know if I do that, then all of this shit that I've been doing will all be for nothing. I'm not down for doing shit for nothing. FUCK. Rant rave. Rant. Rave.















Nice. Finding faith in nothing. Somebody's cold one is giving me chills. Say it ain't so.