Ben Folds

He couldn't sleep at night for fear that she
in a stupor from the drugs that didn't
ease the pain
would set the house ablaze


I don't know what to write, now that this isn't private. Heh.
And I'm already paying the price for the way I didn't properly conceal my Xanga, and now . . .
What do I do, establish twenty new blogs trying to keep secret?
I don't know. I don't know. It seems silly to want to put something secretly on the internet, but at the same time it makes perfect sense to me. The people in my life, in my real out-here life, they're . . . they're in a position to make trouble and then they do. But I don't want to be anonymous, I don't want to be secretive. I wish I could have friends and not be afraid of what they'd do.
Maybe in a couple months, when I'm all graduated, beholden to no one, as't were, then it won't matter what I write and where I write it. Maybe.

11:11

For my senior art show -- a comprehensive list of the ways I know that people wish.

Suggestions welcome.

11:11
100+ cars in a train
make 1000 paper cranes
shooting star
first star of the evening
catching a piece of fluff from the air and blowing it away
birthday candles

Whoops.

I accidentally deleted posts, but I think I had to, because I couldn't hide them.

Well . . . at least I can comment fearlessly, because all of my personal failures are not organized into pleasant little blog posts.

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