Muse's "Screenager" always reminds me of

- I WONDER IF SHE REALISES, HER WORDS MAKE ME WANT TO RIP OUT MY OWN THROAT AND DROWN ON MY OWN BLOOD, JUST TO ESCAPE HER VOICE? -

way back in Kansas. My grandparents came to stay, and i was put in the "long room". If i held myself hard against one wall, i could stand. The ceiling sloped down, to the point where i couldn't even kneel against the other wall. I could barely climb into bed. I resorted to sleeping on the floor. The light switch was far down along the passage (which was about two rooms length), so i mostly kept the lights loose in their sockets (there were four, dotted along the wall), tightening them or loosening them depending on wether or not i wanted to be blinded by their unbelievable brightness. Later on, i recieved blacklight bulbs as a gift, from my mother, which was rather nice. It meant i could fall asleep with the light on. Keep in mind, this was a completely enclosed room, so there were no windows. When i switched off the lights at the switch, i had to clamber across all the clutter contained in the miniture chamber in complete darkness. I took a liking to candles around this time.

This was after my ~severe~ depression stage. After i'd tried the stuff i wrote in today's letter. My "friends" list is growing to be rather substantial... i check your journal when i notice you online, or when you comment to me. Often, though, i'll browse through my list and find people i've not visited in a while. these are normally the people who update infrequently.

How does this read? I realise this is quite a bit of text; i wonder how many people are still reading this. I'm sorry; drawing into myself. Thank you, for reading this.

In the car, on the journey to school: she's smoking. She always does, when she enters the car. How can she expect me to respect her when she does this to herself? Even when i smoked, for that breif moment of time, i didn't expect anybody to respect me any more than i respect myself. Why must she be so special? Fuckin' human traits.

I wonder: if she had a different childhood, would i be writing this? Would it be a message of hope? She was abused, throughout her life. I cannot reconstruct her past in my head, though: it's a mixture of "tell and i'll hurt her" and one-night stands. An endless string of relationships is all i can be certain of. I suppose, at least i can offer myself an explanation for her behaviour.

I should finish writing this, because i must find a disc on which i can burn these files. I need music to escape to, throughout the day.

I also have a new set of toys i want to try out.