I thought I'd forgotten how you felt, but whenever I touch anyone else...it comes drifting back to the surface. You know, like something that you think is so dense, so painful, that you can bury it beneath the sick body of water created from your tears, but it always returns. It isn't you that I want, its your advice. And its someone who can make me feel how you did.

I've found music so beautiful just now, that I don't think I'll listen to anything else ever again.

Even now, you're involved with some. And you just want me. And so do you. And I don't know how to act...I'm addicted to being unhealthy. I wish it wasn't so hard to find someone to compliment me.

I don't ever feel that cold when I go outside...everyone else keeps complaining, I don't feel it.

Paper is always shrinking in my hands while I gorge myself to full expansion. I don't stop until I'm so full of dirt that I stretch like some sick waistband full of sleep and depression. I'm feeling artistic, but with no means of an outlet. I can't help but tire myself with worry that I'll fall into the same rut that I've been only once pulled out of. There's no reason to hope, so I can't make myself.

I'm crying in my closet, clinging to the hems of pants that I wear to make myself look slim.

I thought I would start a new blog and just completely stop using this pathetic little online diary...

www.ashleydarcy.blogspot.com

that was the name, because I didn't want to be creative. I wanted it to be literal, it will be, I mean, I think I'm going to keep it...but I'm not sure I can blog on that with any insight into my personal life. All I do here is complain and its just sad, but whatever. What. Ever.

Seperately, I'm going no where. I'm not rebellious enough to make a mark, I'm not mainstream enough to be oblivious. I'm not ambitious enough to anything important--in my personal life, creatively, anything. And I'm so selfish, I mean, I don't know where this stems from but I really, really don't like these guys that I confuse myself into thinking I do. I want them to like me...and when I see that they have a girlfriend, I'm jealous. It makes no sense, none at all. I haven't talked to you in months and I treated you like shit and have no interest in you intimately at all...but I'm jealous. I have three guys right now that I want to like me...and I'm pretty sure that I care none about any of them. I'm not a good person. I watched Oprah, or more overheard it from the other room today, and it made me so angry. It was all these people that had survived their suicide attempts...and they all kept saying they realized life was worth living...but they had no reasons. WHY is it worth living? Why is this worth writing? I don't know why I do anything I do...and I wish I cared less about people so I wouldn't feel so guilty if I did decide to end my life. And I wish that all didn't sound so dramatic. And these text conversations that go on for hours, I don't know why I keep having them. Honestly, do you really like me? Honestly, have we talked about ANYTHING besides what was going on right in front of our faces? Can you even remember what I look like? There isn't any point. fuhSHGse24SDig$^s. Thats it...I don't know. This entry is just one that you should sweep by on your way to much more important things.