my vagina smells like pumpkin.

pumpkin=comfort food.

Vacae.

i am vacating this honorary life. hmm. i am vacating sleep and making tea and manipulating bad dreams. i am now typing in lowercase. we have agreed that we will now use the toilet and be right back to finish what we started.
I like Clovis. A lot.
So its weird that--no its not. i might have said, its odd that i have full reign and no one to listen and all of every ounce of time in the world and believe it or not my body still works--yet i dont want to talk. too many decisions. it would be better, after all, to be tied up. definitely kidding. i won't give in so easily. FREEDOM AND JUSTICE. thats my motto.
i also liked that i woke up and my mom was alive. because i read about suicide and the warm blood thing really stuck with me. if only i would ace my history tests. then life would be boring, finally.
what to say. where to go from here, everyone. sometimes i like people and sometimes i forget that i like them. him. cough. retch.
there is a girl who seems capable of niceness but of course who am i to judge, but i think she doesnt like me anyway but i like her but that also must mean i am disgusted with her, but then again i get disgusted by plenty and i think thats a keyhole but anyway. so i am afraid of her. but would like to love her. but wont, for stupid reasoning. too lazy. gotta drink my tea. the only thing that makes me shit.
p is for publish. haha. its just, i dont have the anomosity. whoa. i mean--animosity, or anonymousity to describe these little freckles. im sorry, characteristics. i suck at failing.
lets just take everyone and it and thing that is metaphorical and turn them they literal. that is what is missing from this society. then no one will ever go hungry again. shit. metaphors.
cold feet.

I met someone new on the internet in the way of theoretic inspiration and i say it counts more as a meeting than a friendship because they simply havent got a clue.
:)

mental block.

i always read these blogs, that i fall in love with. i like words. i felt like posting a blog, in fact, to feel sorry for self. exactly like this: i am lonely.

but that's too boring. isn't it? or does it just need a little something?

a pick-me-up. an itch i can't scratch. sex, congradulations. my name is emma.

so who reads strangers? lonely strangers? i don't feel that have enough to think about for one--you--to read. it's rather repetitive. goes:lonely? think. do. hair.lonely?think.do.hair.kevin?lonely?think.do.hair

enough, enough, i say! we ought to be watchin buffy the vampire slayer so that the next time we can kick a vamp ass and kiss it. all in one.

lonely, remember?

i do like the title, songwriter. i also appreciate, hater, in some self deprecating way, and smart, without the brilliant part, and lover. sometimes. but about finishing the songs? it takes acceptance. of something. like, finally wanting out. i always wanted to stay comfortable. whether it was with one person, alone, reading, mother, father, bagel, song. pillow. but then, i betrayed some sort of feeling-action and i can't get that out of my head to the point where instinct and vulnerable and abondon are buttoned in the wrong holes. "wrong"? wrong holes? i guess. maybe not. so, i want to turn away from all of that because even though i'll never do it perfect the It of being fifteen going on sixteen and perpetually not awfully vivid enough---

an epic day. night. at ten o'clock i answered my phone-call.