Where do I belong?

In the ground, little bird.

You have nothing to offer this world, so quit trying.

I keep getting out of bed in the morning, at 6, somehow.

It gets done. I'm getting a belly and I'm beginning to get varicose veins in my hands.

I keep hoping I can smooth them out again to no avail.

The more I look at this, the more I wonder if I'm a sacrificial lamb instead of an apprentice.

Cross your fingers for me and hope it's not a cross I'll be nailed to.

I miss the Island.

I've missed so many moments wrapped up in what I shouldn't be.

Spinning my hot wheels cars into the nearest wall and as I'm picking up the pieces of the wreckage, I'm told I needn't have driven in the first place.

Don't scoff at the fact that I whipped out a highlighter. I wanted to make sure I got the story right. When you scoffed, I panicked and I just wrote. and wrote. and it came out, All. wrong.

Thanks.

Thanks.

Thanks.

A 'Thanks' dealt on autopilot feels worse then nothing at all.

A moment of melodrama brought to you by your not-so-local something or other.

I say so seriously, I have no idea who I am anymore.

Who are you?

Someone's got to be someone around here.

I saw All the President's Men for my first time last night.

I'm not kidding; I'm that much of a loser that I've only just seen All the President's Men.

It was. fucking. gold with a side of opals.