icebergPrinciple

so i'm eighteen as of last friday, even though erhm, sadly, some people forgot (david/cough). in other news, im a tree.  or the color red.  im not quite sure which.  and unless columbia/mystery school offers kickass financial aid, go cardinal!  go tree!  go stanford!  go sunny palo alto, palm trees, and nice people.  thats the only weird thing about california.  people dont cuss enough.  nor do they cross the street when (gasp), it's still a green/yellow light. in other, other news, im going to have to get a job. my oh my.  it feels good to slack off and not do work.  i can paint, i can doodle, i can make layouts.  i can watch my cat go in

last week was death. this week was hell. next week will probably be worse. if you talk to me seven days from now and i dont reply, look under the river of liquor and cigarettes.  because i will be able to buy those legally, not that i smoke anyway. but its the principal of the thing.

i feel old.  a tired old.  on the walk home i wrote this, knowing that id probably never put it down, because when you write things out they become real and when theyre real they hurt double.  but when things cease to matter, you dont mind the double hurt because remembering feels good, in a sort of sadistic way.  i feel like im falling.  the awful sort of falling, like when  people's faces become too much to look at and your eyes are tired and heavy because you've been running around on the edges of their lives, and suddenly all that has grounded you has ceased to be and you realize that you never loved me at all, and it was only me who was