Now I feel downright horrible. I’m bored. I can’t seem to draw worth shit, (yes Mom, I just used a cuss word) I’ve been reading all day and I’m tired of it, I can’t leave the house right now because I’m babysitting, I don’t feel good, (physically, believe it or not) and all in all my inspiration has left me entirely. I hate this. I can’t even call anyone, because Kevin’s at that baseball game and Sierra’s at camp meeting and Jordan’s in India for what might be at least three more months, and I was gonna call her mom today to see if she’d heard from her recently, and I forgot and it’s too late now. I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to call. I don’t think I get along with people very well in general. I HATE THIS! I’M GOING TO GO CRAZY IN A MINUTE! I’M NOT KIDDING! And damn it, I can’t do anything about it. So what does that mean, since technically no one goes crazy from this kind of thing? Right? It’s like dying of a broken heart. I just don’t think it happens anymore. I think that’s good. I’m not sure though. Maybe it was easier when you didn’t have to live the rest of your life with madness or grief.