SuicideGirls, you've been wonderful. But I can't do this anymore. I have to leave you. This time for good.

Oh, no. Don't do that. This isn't your fault. It's not you. It's me.

Really.

Scotland: 1.

My Lonely Heart (being also Black and Full of Despair): 0.




I'm back.

I'm done with classes.

In Soviet Russia, final exams take you.



I think I'm happy, though. As far as life goes. I will be drawing again, soon enough.

What is it that makes us (read: me) want to know a person like they are math? Some differential equation in need of some good integral notation. To calculate the area under those curves.

What are your limits? What happens (to you, to me, to the world) as you approach infinity--and you will.

What is your absolute value? How far are you, exactly, from nothing at all?

Why do you situate at those positive angles, leaking arcseconds like apathy? Your hypotenuse is a hyperbole, and everything is exaggerated.

As a matter of factorial, I just want to solve for all your radical roots, to find an irrational integer (you create these paradoxes) what will balance our equation.

There may be no intersection of A and B, or you and me, but there is a union. We are of the real set, both you and I.




In other news: I have red on me.

At the Trocadero, in Philadelphia, I told a girl named Sam that she was pretty.

I am never going to see her again.





Does the fact that 99% of the people we come across in our life are never again seen, ever, bother anyone else but me?

It had me depressed all the way though Jersey, which is depressing enough in it's own smelly right.

My Cup, it overfloweth.

As I was about to crawl into bed with newfound contention, I noticed out my window a slight anomaly among the clear black night.

It was snowing.

And here I had been, not hours before, traipsing about in naught but my SpringWare, and now it was snowing.

To top it all off, it's the kind of Edward Scissorhands snow that leaves nothing behind. Thousands of feet it has to fall, and nothing to show for it. It could very well be ash, and I just hadn't heard that the inner city was demolished.

I felt it was worth mentioning.

I opened my window; the air smelled not of sorrow;
I will not read of death; when I wake in the morrow.

My weekend ended with being served a grilled cheese by a soft-spoken waiter in a diner with a depressing color scheme.

This is what I choose to believe.

This is only here because the "has no entries" bollocks is pretty hideous. I don't really have enough in me to write in two journals, so there probably won't anything of substance in here, unless I just double-post my LiveJournal entries here, as well. Which I might do. I am uncertain.

I love making inconsequential decisions out to be life-changing dilemmas. Mhm.

You and I are not friends. This is unfortunate. Fix plz?

Oh, and if you were wondering (read: you weren't wondering, but I'm going to tell you anyhow,) the girl in the picture is my lady-friend for life, not me. I don't wear dresses very often. This is also unfortunate. She, however, does wear dresses often, and likes to have her picture taken. I like her, she's good people.