November 5, 2001
Butterfly
Golden. Like the David Bowie years.
Surprisingly enough, work was pretty good today. Or, in other words, I didn't think ridiculous suicidal thoughts. The truth is, I'm way too shallow and vain to ever kill myself. I like me too much. I realize that my life totally blows at present, but that it will not be so in approximately two months.
Exhibit A) Will 99% likely be heading off to college, 1% being for the unfortunate circumstance of losing limb or coming down with mono.
Exhibit B) Will be in boyfriend's arms or just recently out of them, with maybe only a month or more (a month fat with phone calls at that) before he takes his month leave and is back with me again.
Exhibit C) Will either have demanded raise at Cappel's or moved on to higher paying employment where skills are respected and duly compensated.
See? Everything's gonna be great.
Excuse me while I escape to my room to burst into tears whilst curling up with blanket and Ryan's letters.
And sad excuse for brain after so long a rest.
And dollar that remains of last paycheck.
astera at golden