|Current mood:|| jealous|
|Current music:||"Waste of Paint" by Bright Eyes|
it's just the thought of you in love with someone else
hmm. i woke up, brushed my teeth, got online, talked to Art, took a shower, talked to Art more, Art called, i talked to him on the phone for about 3 hours, we got off the phone, i got back on the computer, tripp brought subway home, i had 1/2 an italian sub, i looked at fotki to see if anyone left notes on our photo albums, they haven't, i checked my journal to see if i had any notes, i don't, and now i'm updating. i work from 5-7. my hair smells good. it's soft as well. i'm drinking milk, i hate milk. i hate girls named lindsay that guys named Art go out with. my teddy bear rocks. he's hot. he doesn't have a name, he needs a name. i'm done.
P.S.- will my number come up eventually? like love's some kind of lottery, where you scratch and see what's underneath? it's sorry. just one cherry, i'll play again, get lucky...and i wanna scream out that it all is nonsense... but just then my knees give under me, my head feels weak and suddenly, it's clear to see it's not them, but me who's lost my self identity. and i hide behind these books i read while scribbling my poetry like art could save a wretch like me with some ideal ideaology that no one could hope to achieve and i'm never real it's just a sketch of me and everything i made is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.