Only I don't really hate you, so please don't threaten to take away things I like, 'kay?
Aaaaanyway. I'm sitting here, on my bed. In front of me are all three volumes of Les Bijoux, which I really should reread if I'm going to choose a costume, even though I think I already have. Next to me is my required reading for school, which I should read because ... well, it's for school. Next to me on the other side is Why Girls Are Weird, by Pamela Ribon, which I should read because I just spent money on it and barbed_whispers likes it and she usually has good taste in books. But what am I reading instead? The Perks of Being a Wallflower byStephen Chbosky.
First of all, why am I so predictable?
Second of all, this book rips me to pieces. It is thisclose to actual, physical pain. I don't know what it is. It isn't the type of thing that would normally do that to me. But I'm sitting here, reading a little bit at a time in between other things, and I can already feel the edges of hysterical crying that will come later.
I know why I'm reading it, of course. One of them is Katie and our new project, because we are insane and quite possibly stupid.
I have a doctors appointment tomorrow, which will likely be a huge waste of time, and I am scared shitless.
And it also just occurred to me that it is 4:20 in the morning and my appointment is at 10:30. Why am I still awake?
[Because fluffymaru is distracting, that's why.]
I'm going to bed. I haven't had enough sleep in too long.