November 24, 2000 [10:11 pm]
Book - it's been about two days since I began scratching my gray story into your white surface and yet, here I am again, trapped in a shell on numbness like the liquid core of a cherry cough drop: my outside viciously sweet, betraying no part of myself. But the worst part is that though this shell parallel's Wednesday's, it's not as tantalizingly quixotic. I'm blind and stumbly instead of inside that bubble of blinking lights, one for each tear waiting to break out. I'm so sure I will become a corpse soon as unlikely as it seems. I'm difinately acting obsessive-compulsive-ish with the room and dude it's so fucking clean like my mother always dreamed but it makes me want to scream cause two pairs of shoes are not perfectly parallel and the colset door or only half-shut and the bedspread isn't symmetrical.
Today - so today -