:: what title ::

:: Tuesday, February 14, 2006 ::

i'm looking up into the sky and the starrs, they tell me nothing...

why is it there is so much noise when no one is at home? creepy. tis my overreactive imagination yet again. today, i feel young. i feel vulnerable. it's like, i'm seeking all these homely comforts. warm milo. i had 2 yakults and feel about 3 years old. all i need is a comforter and spice girls ballads.

seriously, how do you slow your blood after the body rush? this is one huge soap opera, my life. i need to get a bloody job as soon as exams are over. get my mind off shit y'know. i'm still a bit bitter about having to miss the Oasis concert. there are many things i'd like to say to you but i don't know how.

okay, i should probably get back to work. this was supposed to be a mini divergence of studying. not the story of my week.

and after all, you're my wonderwall.

Every writer is a narcissist. This does not mean that he is vain it only means that he is hopelessly self-absorbed. - Leo Rosten

krys

:: krys Tuesday, February 14, 2006 [+] ::
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