writer of fiction

i seem to have made a mess of things. but perhaps it's a good mess. or perhaps it's a fun mess. or maybe a wonderful beautiful mess. but that's only if i'm a really lucky girl. and i think we all know i am not a very lucky girl. i think this could turn out to be an ugly mess.

but my life is that of messes, fun or ugly, so it should not be anything new. the last time i started talking like this, about making messes and mistakes with boys and cars, i started smoking, cried for six days straight, and could barely work through the fog i walked through. but this time, there's no tears. there's no fog, and though there are a few cigarettes i don't pick them up in hopes they will somehow get me breathing again. this time, no big deal.

i'm finally taking my own advice.

maybe i'm not a hypocrite anymore.

this time, i can't help being myself. this time, i refuse to hate myself for something happening that i did not intend. this time i don't think it's the end of the world. this time i don't think everything is crashing down. this time i don't think this is the end of a friendship, which last time had me walking around like a tear-soaked zombie craving brains. this time i'll be me. and i'll listen to what i have told so many others and be myself, and the best of myself, and try to help pthers, and try to be better, but i can only try my best.

this feels strange.

it's a wonder what can be accomplished when you listen to yourself.

i skiped french today. i haven't started on my lab term paper.
i am queen procrastinator.
but i don't care.
i'm the happiest i've been in a long
long
long
time.

<3monroe