I have no idea how to begin this entry and so that shall be it. Reassuringly, I do have the vague notion that I will be describing my day. Here I am assuming that any one has noted the sore lack of that. What the following lines might lack in hooks they compensate with their overall sinking factor. Unlike my weakest subject (Math) I can't pinpoint the moment this all went downhill. My eyes wouldn't close until the dismal fog of a new morn thus I was bound for an all-day nap regardless of any nobler intentions. I deluded myself into thinking I'd still wish to go to class with just four or three hours of sleep. When I turned my head towards the window I knew that no sleep would come until my Vocaloid torrent purchase finished downloading. Once I was informed that it (huzzahhurrah) was complete there was still the matter of attempting to crack figure it out and there wasn't a serial code. After some fruitless efforts I resigned with a clear "fuck it" and declared I would master that goddamn program... eventually. I dragged myself into bed and pulled my five comforters close. I was afraid to place my oily face against the cotton goodness which would subsequently feed the massive "Zit Vicious" on my chin. I seem to be growing quite the little band of misfits there. Just like most misfits in this world there's no need to encourage them/social commentary. Chronologically, I slept at around seven or eight. I still couldn't go into full REM because I didn't care try to play That 70s show while Megurine Luka's voice synthesizer was installing. I opened up Little Women because I like being eight again, sometimes. The last thing I remember is wondering just what Laurie could have seen in bratty Amy. Even when she grew older and became a subservient "refined" young lady, I still found her on the edge of insufferable. The last image before I surrendered to sleep was that of dark eyes the color of cocoa beans, velvety soft and shaped like almonds. I woke up to the sound of my father opening my bedroom door telling me that it was time for school. 10 o'clock. I was in no mood. My downloading spree was the direct result of moist dark eyes that haunt me. That will probably always haunt me even when I'm old and gray. I informed those eyes that I no longer wished to be near them- the idea of those eyes gazing at- impulse. Impulse, he he says. Blue words on a navy box. Once I started thinking about impulses and wet eyeballs, my tooth began it's agonizing clang as if a thousand microscopic men were drilling into my very nerve. Yes, it's men- all of them drilling my nerves. I need less of them for a while. I informed my father that I was in pain and had no desire to attend class. My hair was up with loose clamps of damp-looking hair sticking every which way. My face was, if you remember, incredibly oily. The sight of the broken sink at four o'clock in the morning was enough for me to turn away from a pretty ambitious venture to the restroom. I was a woman with a plan, alright. Washing my face. My Dad wasn't all too surprised though he was pretty disappointed we didn't take the opportunity to hop our way to ol' TJ to have my dental issue fixed. I slept for more hours until my mother came home from work at around 2 or three in the afternoon. A plate with a bean-filled bollilo and a Styrofoam cup of Sunny D was in her hands. She handed me the cup and then demanded to know what was wrong with me. I wasn't having it at that moment. The thought of being reprimanded and lectured at that moment felt like it would just send me to the nuthouse. I requested that she leave my room. She persisted and we had a bit of a debacle where she raised her hand more than once to slap my face. Apart from the impending physical damage, I can't really blame her. In my anger, I threw the bollilo to the floor as she left. Currently, she's arranging the Christmas decorations in our living room all by herself even though she has wake up at 3:30 AM. It is 11:00 PM on the dot. I feel sorry. I do but I can't bring myself to go out of this room in all my greasy splendor. I am also genuinely upset at her reaction. The apple doesn't really fly off, does it? Well, in our cases it does. We fly off into fits of rage and sometimes we do fall. I fall harder than anyone even though I have it the easiest. I fall into pity parties, bouts of self loathing, and rituals of bad behavior. I allowed myself to simmer in my anger for a bit until I got lost in the world of editing. Out of a desire to separate myself from my former sappy dreamwidth that is filled with "dark eye devotion" I created this. I'm trying to record my adventures. That's a lie. These are thoughts. I doubt they'll be much else. Few things ever are. I made my sister listen to my Fireflies by Owl City rewrite/mix. Also my "Maybe We Can Be" rewrite of "You Belong With Me." I enjoy the former one the most because it sounds so saccharine and unbelievably bitter. I retitled it "Whores" because they light up the night better than any goddamn firefly I've seen. They also, two to be exact, lit the loins of my former partner. Bitter, bitter. I can still hear my mother rummaging through bags in the living room. It is now 11:08. I need to drown out this guilt with some music. I'm still far too into my head. After some more moments of being lost, my brother and sister-in-law stopped by my door for a chat. They inquired why there was an air mattress, hand-painted princes dresser, and coffee table in the spare room next to mine. I informed them that those were the new keeps of our future housemates- a family of three- two young girls and a mother. We continued to converse. I explained my car dilemma which goes into this impressively cyclical dance with my unemployment status. It's not even a waltz. There's a grease stain on the envelope that came along with his present. What is it with my life and grease? Is it the fault of the clump of beans that was stuck to my wall? I didn't even notice until my brother and s-i-l that it was feces. x_x Those beans were from the bollilo, btw. I regret it as it was so toasty and warm. My mother is in her room now. If I dare go outside these walls I will probably walk down the hall to see a beautiful room I took no part in creating. I wish I was a little girl talking to the porcelain figures from the nativity scene. I believed very little, even then. I guess I prayed for the comfort that was in it. I guess I told my tales and wept my little weeps because those figures were wiling to listen. Sure, they weren't too responsive but meh. I kind of want that envelope out of my sight. It reminds me of promises I cannot keep all because of a painting that is just behind me Well, I'm an ass. I just told my mother that the tree is too small when I meant to say something less bitchy. Con te partirò.