Here goes nothing. And I mean it. Nothing.

On my drive home, there was a helicopter flying high above me, floating into the sunset, becoming a spec in the sky. I could hear it over my music, beating like my heart a thousand times a second. I turned road after road, passed through the lights and pulled down my visor so the sun wouldn't hurt my eyes.

Parked my car, and fussed with the keys to get in to my apartment. Threw down my belongings next to the mess he left that morning, and just sat in the silence of our new home. Our new home. Why do I feel as though I'm the only one working hard to make it seem like our home? Our neatly organized unique home sweet fucking home?

Anyway, I'm listening to Bright Eyes on my playlist of sadness, and it's kind of helping to let all this disgusting pain out of my system onto a wesite that somoene might reply to and pretend to care.

I feel like I have a huge scab, and I keep picking it open. Except the scab is my happiness covering the bleeding sadness. Does that even make fucking sense? Is it this normal to be sad and write things about scabs and blood and pain and hating myself and my life and everything I've ever chosen to do for my future?

I pick my happiness off because I kinda miss the pain that is the blood shed under the scab, so I just keep picking. And when it becomes a scar, it's just that pain sticking to me forever, never fading.

This is fucking dumb, I just compared my emotions to a fucking scab!

Okay, moving on. I feel even better though now, than I did before the last paragraph. Bright Eyes. Download them, now.

*sigh* Wow, what a long pointless entry. Ha. Um...

Where'd my writing go? I thought I had something good to put down on this blog thing.

Write me some feedback? Or not.