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17 March '98

what are we talking about here? twelve more minutes until i'm off to write another essay. i think they're all staring at me. but i turn away or down. glue my pen to my hand and face. what are they so scared of? i have no more secrets. the wind has carried them off. all i have left are stories. stories of how i loved you years ago. a little girl. i knew your name: tattooed beneath my chest. but how could i say it when i couldn't read? couldn't even.. speak.
"i have a friend with a cat named albert. he's white trash."
attitudes are floating now. i've grown old. i've died in my self-hate. self-depreciation. angieC turns over. hello. black water trickles onto her head. i think i'm shiney and happy. i think i'm sad. i think my life is a tilt-a-whirl. and that someday i'll crack in the backseat of the car. where's all this pressure coming from? no one. exactly. me. all i need. all i need. somedays i'd dream about her. i truly believed. i was nine. i was ten. she was very far away. realities are so closed. i believe in ignorance, and it brings me closer to Death. and now the time has come for us all to suffer mr. poe's loving wrath.
---forty minutes later---
well that sucked.

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