You lay in bed at night, thinking about what people might do if you died. I dont know. I want to smoke. I want to drink. I want to break someones arm. I want to know what it is like to be dying. I want to hurt something. I want to build something. I want to make the world beautiful. I want to be powerful. I want to be stunning. I want to sing and I want to write. I want to be important. I want, I want, I want. I am a sick person. My friend gave me a really cool christmas present. It is called "The Little Book Of Stress." It is about how to get more stressed instead of less stressed. Here is an excerpt (sp?) from this book: "If at first you dont succeed... it must be someone else's fault. Find them; blame them; make them pay." Oh yes. Refreshing no? I also got a huge blow up bat with happy faces on it, that I can hit people with... happily. And boots. I woke up at five this morning, and I couldnt go back to sleep untill eight. I just layed in my bed, and stared at my wall. I am thinking that I want a kitten. And a job. But mostly a kitten. I shouldnt want to smoke, or to drink. Those things are stupid. I know that. I find myself forgetting the future. I live so much in the present, and in the past. I hope I dont live past 50, things just look like they go downhill from there. I might go to California for college. I might get married. I might have kids. I might make something of my life. I hope so. I want to get swept off my feet and carried away to a castle by the ocean and never have to deal with reality again. The end. I want, I want, I want. Shoot me. in the name of reality