THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
You know, I keep writing entry after entry and deleting them because I don't really know what I'm trying to write.
Some of the old entries on this diary scare me.
I didn't do anything all day long. I really, really want a pop tart.
Like, really really a lot.
Some witty comment feels necessary, you know, like about how instead of saying that I was PMSing and had cramps, I messaged my friend and told her that my ovaries were on fire and I was going to kill myself.
Or about how I watched America's Next Top Model all day and made turbans for all the cats because I want to make them into true Felines for Terrorism. I'm going to start a campaign.
Or about how I listened to Atticus's dragging the Lake III. and didn't feel like killing myself/the stereo. That's never happened before. Uusally it get's past the Blink182 song (I can stand them, but that's more of a history type issue) and I start hurling objects at the stero.
It pissed me off too. Last time I did that, I knocked over NOT ONLY my glow in the dark Gary the Snail, fire breathing nun, bobble head jesus, BUT MY SATAN STATUE FROM TJ.
Come on. That just sucks.
No, but seriously. I can't even tell you how bad I want some poptarts right now. If I had a car/my liscense, I would screw kerfew and go to Save On.
It's a pop tart emergency for god's sake.
A POP TART EMERGENCY.
EMERGENCY, I SAY!
And, despite all witty stupid pointless obnoxious all caps etc comments I can make, you have no idea how shitty I feel right now. It's not emo, it's emminant reality.
Time moves far too fast.
....*sobs*....POP TARTS.....