how is it that when we talk, I can't help but forget I'm mad at him? Fuck me. Not really. Things are good. I like it. Too many "he's" but whatever, they'll eventually fall away, like always. I'm fucking EXCITED for Senior Ball. My dress is pretty. Yay. But in a box beneath my bed, is a letter that he never read, from three summers back. It's hard not to find it all a little bittersweet. I'm going for a walk. I'm very fond of walking. P.S. Marry me, Mr. Darcy.