Isn't that the subject all the time of the entry I make on this day every year? Yes. I'm feeling better, but not by much. A friend of mine slit her wrists last Friday, but by accident. She was working with the linoleum cutter in the art room and pressed too hard and slid too fast. Last year, she was the girl in design class who was always too afraid to use the paper cutter because she was afraid to cut her fingers off--I think that that just proves that the more afraid and paranoid of something you are, the more chances you have of that being the end of you. She's doing alright, but I bet you she'll never go near sharp things again. Today it's raining, a fitting mood for a day on which I should have been out riding, experiencing Saint Valentine's Day with the only beings who never give me grief, my horses. Instead I'm sitting here in the library during History, furtively typing a diary entry which could earn me ISS is anyone caught me. Sitting alone is a small price to pay for the joyous feeling of talking to yourself on paper, I think. I know. I believe. I had a really good dream last night and I wrote it down. Maybe I'll make a story out of it. Not that I have that sort of talent, or anything. Mrs. Sullivan is a toad. -- sirmink--yes, I'll try and get on tonight.