It doesn't matter how often you repeat the scinario in your head--the matter of fact reality will still blow you away. Please stop talking; don't tell me comforting or encouraging things, I don't want to hear it. Repetition makes the meaning less and all these words are suddenly meaningless. I just can't get away from fate, can't prove her wrong. Fuck you. Don't tell me you know what I'm capable of--you don't. You won't even give me the chance, your mind already focused, made-up, so fuck all of this because I can't bother to care any more. It isn't worth my time. Hand me my passport, please, because I'm on the next flight to New Beginnings and the only suitcase I'll bring will be full of optimism, Hope, a blindfold so I won't have to look at my self, and ear plugs so I won't have to listen to any of it any more. This isn't about the event, it's the principal of the thing--the ongoing theme of it; a pattern of tries, false hopes, and unexpected (or expected) let-downs. What else could make this day any worse? In the next room they're cutting cake and I can't have any. I won't let myself. Not any more. This is just another one of those sink holes and while I'm trying to stay above the mud, I still feel trapped, stuck, and disgusted by what I see. You would think that after enough failure, eventually would come success. I would break down and cry if I wasn't so damn proud. 'What does pride matter? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride..." It's so depressing to know that that's the last image of an actress they'll ever see from me. And it's worse to know we broke, worse to know I failed again, worse to think about all the poeple I'm going to have to face today. I'd like to crawl back into last year, surrounded by the people I always believed to be much smarter and stronger than I. To all the boys who were my everday heros (even though, with one of them, I might have been more angry with than happy). But I miss all the comforts of being hopeful and ignorant. I just feel like I'm trying so fucking hard to keep things together, to stay on top and get ahead, and some goddamn bad-luck shadow is walking ahead of me and ruining everything I try to fix. Look, I don't need to be the best--I'm not in it for the solo bow, the singe spotlight, the applause, none of that! I'm not looking for stardum, for an award, for praise--I just want to be free to to be different, to be expressive, to be....bigger than I am on a day to day basis. Maybe I ought to stop trying. I seem to do better when I let things happen naturally. Like poetry. I don't give thought to it, don't try too hard, it just comes and somehow it always comes well. But I can't punch a poem on demand and, apparantly, I can't do what they demand of me. I'm so angry and tired I could spit an ocean of swear words, but I'm bigger than that, so I won't. A dream is a wish your heart makes. Maybe that's why I feel like I'm crushing. Carrie don't comment, don't say a word, just move on to your list of lives to read and let me be. Like always, there's bound to be a happy ending somewhere down the road. Maybe tomorrow will be better. For now, fuck off world.