I tried hanging out with people my own age today.

It failed miserably.

I don’t think anyone reads my xanga anymore since I have so many other internet personalities to attend to, so I think I can write a bit more fearlessly in here now.

I am barely clutching on to rational thought right now. It’s taking every ounce of my consciousness to maintain a relatively healthy balance between my emotions. There are just too many potential realities that I could be facing in the not-so-distant future, each of which featuring everything falling apart. And I’m tired of falling apart. Or sometimes I just feel like Andy Warhol. Maybe I just never fall together.

Fuck girl-dom, man. Because 10 to 1, these could just be hormones.

I’m going to read The Alchemist now. Whatever, heart. I’m better off without you.

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“Hello, world. This is me. Life should be. Mmm mmm yeah. Fun for everyone.”

1 paragraph and 1 page down, 2 pages and 4 paragraphs to go. All within the next 3 hours before I have to turn it in. Oh, Machiavelli. You are going DOWN.

Hey, baby xanga. How you doin’. It’s been a while.

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