20 january 2000 | back | archive | forward

lately, my words don't feel like my own. when i'm thinking, i feel like my thoughts are being broadcast to an audience. when i'm writing in my journal, i don't write to myself, i write to someone else. even when i speak, i am certain bubbles are forming over my head for everyone to see.

like now. i know you're reading this. hi, how are you today? that's a lovely shirt you're wearing.

what's weird is it's not a conscious effort. i type fast. i write furiously. the words flow, no, pour out of me. but they're coherent. they're concise. they're meticulous. without really trying. it just happens. i don't think before i write. i barely think while i write. that's what makes it so scary.

it doesn't make me like my writing any less. i just don't know if i can call it mine.

it's just these words i write, and i let people, like you, read them.

i am being very sociable lately. flit, flit, butterfly.

i'm trying to grow my hair out -- i want pigtails, don't ask -- but it's in that inbetween stage, in which every day is a bad hair day. (on a light note, it's turning a bright red that i like.)

they redesigned brill's content, and the print mag is clean and easier to read. anyone interested in the media -- especially journalists -- should read this.

i forgot to eat my apple, again.

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