Party Pooper

I only use this blog when im sad. Or really really angry, which is a form of sadness anyway.

Is it?

Its weird. The week of torture has offically passed. And i actually got through it, without massive breakdowns or screaming fits. Its over, its over, i keep on telling myself. The understood reaction is that of going out, getting dressed, looking pretty, and enjoying yourself. And i honestly tried, i really did try, to do exactly that. I went out, i looked ok, but i didnt enjoy myself. Everything was fake, everything so fabricated, everything so intended. I laughed and laughed, but i never found anything funny. And we moved from location to location, but my mind was stuck somewhere else.

When did the magic leave my life? Where did the thrill do? Where in the name of holy jesus is the passion? The drive, the ambition?

Is magic supposed to die with the doll houses and the easy bake ovens? Does it go the first time you realise your parents arnt perfect, or when your "bestest bestest" friend tells someone else about your first crush? When does this dull dissillusionemnt set in? This dual personality?

"And here we wander in illusions...."

Shakespeare might be a dead fag with a bad haircut, but he gets it so right sometimes.

Its 7 in the evening. Theres an elaborate plan made for the evening. But i just want to go to bed and sleep my thoughts away. All this "thinking" business makes life such a bitch.