i want to write. i want to write a short story. i want to write poetry. a novel is too long. short, simple, concise. truth authenticity honesty. but would i be too honest? would too much of me show up? and then people would really see inside, and thats scary. i think too many real events would come out, too much of the bitterness that surrounds certain people. lots of people. more than i realize.

i don’t like people who brag on their own papers. insert snotty hahaha here. “i tied it together quite nicely in my paper.”

everyone is antsy. four people are bouncing their legs around in the class. i’m not too that point yet.

i wonder if i could write something decent. something publishable. i have no motivation. my life is just like everyone elses’.

i’m really bruised from soccer. i’ll be glad to play tennis tomorrow night.

ha. so my paper wasn’t wasn’t due til midnight tonight. oh well. it’s already done. i wouldn’t have minded having a little extra time.

i wish it didn’t take so much effort for me to be clean. not like i don’t take showers clean, but keep my room clean.

oh boy.

i wish i sounded intellectual and i wonder if the people in class think that i just sound retarded and talk without a purpose.

so much of me wants to get the hell out of orlando and find some place to live thats on the coast. a coast. any coast. somewhere with the sea breeze.

books people recommended
fall on you knees
elizabeth gravers – unravelling
jane hamilton
ahab’s wife (too long)
judith ortiz caufer a woman in front of the sun