I just saw a piece of spam in my inbox demanding that I grow a third leg. GROW A THIRD LEG, it said. I'm thinking, now why the hell would I want a third leg? I would look like an easel or something.

And then I went ooooh. Ew.

Why, yes, I am still over-medicating myself with the generic cough syrup. Why do you ask?

Anyway, today I waited for UPS to deliver a CD. That is all. I may have started to write really shitty letters, but I can't remember if that was today or last night. My life is so fast-paced, I can't keep track of anything anymore. Sure. I'm not sure if it's a good thing that I put the same amount of effort into letters as I do stories. I mean, it takes so goddamn long that maybe I should just write it, once, and send it before I have a chance to proofread. Yeah, like I can keep myself from proofreading something. I'm actually considering getting the symbol for delete tattooed on my right wrist. At first, I wanted the paragraph symbol, but delete is prettier.

I really, really, really want to get another tattoo. Like, now.

Speaking of really, cubed, I'm really, really, really trying not to be pessimistic about Jerkface. You see, he has this habit of telling me he likes me and then poof. Nothing more is said on the subject until I call him up at noon one day, drunk as fuck, and demand he answers questions that I never even ask him. That's why I've never really explained the whole story on here. I don't know how.

"Right. So you've liked him for years and he's had feelings for you, too, right? And you've told him, both drunkenly and soberly, how you feel? Numerous times? And you still haven't made out? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I don't know.

I'm so fucking scared that I'm going to fuck up, even though I can't define what it is that's in danger of being fucked up. I know that I ask too many questions and refrain from making assumptions, no matter how right it seems. I know that I have a very hard time believing that a boy would actually like me, especially a boy that's known me for so long and pretty much reads me like a book. And I know that thinking like that is really fucking stupid and annoying.

I'm not going to use past relationships and crushes as reasons for my issues, though. The blame can only be placed on me; the one constant in every single relationship.

OK, fuck this shit. In the words of the great philosopher Harry Hard-On "SO BE IT." I don't know what's going to happen and I'm just going to rile myself up trying to predict anything. He's just a boy and I'm just a girl. Simple.

Right?

Blah. The goddamn gremlin is fucking with me again and tonight's song selection is the tango. Apparently, my little gremlin has a lady friend.

Dear god, I need drugs.

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