one twenty-seven

it is after one in the morning. and i should go to bed. but i can't. there is something wrong. there is something wrong and i need to tell someone. i need to write it down. but i can't. i am supposed to be a writer. this is what i want to do. write. but i can't explain what is wrong. i can't use the small amount of words i have to explain. i can't string them together in perfect patterns to paint you a picture of my feelings. of the thoughts in my head.

there is a postcard that was sent to postsecret that reads, "i use sarcasm to hide how ridiculously vulnerable i am." it wasn't my postcard. but it was my secret.

every day i look at the map of london i have over my desk and wonder if i will actually be there to see the real thing. to walk the streets i am starting to become familiarized with. to visit the modern art museum that i now know how to get to.

he didn't call. but i don't think i wanted him to.

today my bracelet broke. and when it happened, i felt this overwhelming sense of sadness, of fear. i felt like something bad was going to happen.

when i drank last night, my thoughts stopped. or maybe they continued, but i just didn't care what they had to say.

the word "frush" means to want to get to know someone better as a friend. stephani argues that there is no such thing. that either frushes lead to crushes or started off as crushes when frush is used in regards to the opposite sex. maybe she is right. i hope not.

debbie didn't call to make sure i was okay. i know she was busy. but it still makes me want to cry.

if you promise i'll have sweet dreams, i'll believe you. but you can't promise something like that. you just can't.